The Truth in Shards
by barefoot11
Summary: Matthew knows, that at the end of this long journey, he'd have Alfred to thank. His brother had been the one to ditch him, after all, and that's what had started the whole mess. Human names used, AU, eventual Prussia/Canada, others
1. With You

It was just like him. It was just like Alfred to tell him to wait outside of school for him so that he could drive him home – and then forget. The shadows formed monsters on the dim sidewalk and Matthew chewed on his bottom lip. Sure, maybe he shouldn't have waited for so long, but being so patient and having so much faith that his brother would eventually remember him lead him to still be standing there, three hours later when the sun was just touching the edges of the horizon. His book bag was still clutching to his numb shoulders, while the autumn wind lifted up dusty old leaves in front of him. Thickly, he gulped and his fingernails scratched against the stubborn material of the single textbook that never seemed to fit into his bag correctly. Though that usually irked him, he didn't mind holding it at the moment, for, if he put himself in the most desperate state of mind and tweaked his nerves, it almost felt like his favorite plush bear… yes, maybe he should just head home.

He took a deep breath. Luckily for him, he didn't live too far away from the academic building, but it would still be a good twenty minute walk; maybe even half an hour if he wasn't brisk enough. The first step felt heavy for the blonde, as he turned to his left with the school toward his back. He kept his pace as quick as it normally was, and he had never been a slow walker. His mind reeled in cartwheels and invented crude happenings just to pass the time. It told him that he probably should have asked for a cell phone for his birthday earlier that year, instead of insisting that he'd just use his brother's, since Matthew hung around him for lack of other social circles. Usually he thought things out more clearly than that! He huffed, and the hot breath swirled in circles before his lips. He simply couldn't believe how unfortunate this had all turned out to be. Though there was an analog watch hanging limply from his wrist, he couldn't make out the time from the lack of light. It was all so annoying.

Distractedly, he turned a corner and mentally knew that he only needed to continue walking straight for the remaining ten minutes or so before he could be at his doorstep. The heavy coat he was held in began feeling alarmingly weak as the air chilled and the wind picked up strength and speed. His hair played before his eyes, one curl sticking out in particular. He created a train of thought that brought him out of the reality that held bristling tall grass, screeching cat fights and lone cars. Matthew tried not to think of how scary his hometown suddenly seemed to be, and tried thinking of upcoming tests and finals as his footsteps crunched the earth below them. Beside him, a long brick wall belonging to a deserted old building scratched against his jacket's sleeve. He didn't have to stand so close to it, but he knew if he drifted too far off he might make a wrong turn, and the day had been so terrible that he wasn't risking it.

Suddenly – or maybe not so suddenly, for Matthew hadn't been paying much attention to his surroundings – there was an insistent, light noise registering in his ears. His mind frazzled, and he couldn't believe it. Coming to a stop, he tempted fate and looked up, only to have raindrops splatter on the lenses of his glasses. "Oh, no…" He whispered, incredulous, as a weak flame of fury built in his stomach. "Darn it!" Clenching his teeth, he took a heavy breath, and tried to clear his mind again. A little rain had never hurt anyone, it surely wouldn't hurt him. It began raining harder as he started walking again, but he paid it little attention. He guessed that he had around eight more minutes before –

Matthew's thoughts crumbled in paralyzing fear as a hand rested, from behind, on his shoulder. A shuddering breath slipped through his lips, one that he guessed would be his very last.

"…Ya lost?" asked a silky and slightly husky voice.

Turning, he was met with startling red eyes that were misted in the dark, creating a slightly cranberry color. A pale eyebrow was raised in curiosity, and the smothering gaze didn't falter. Matthew stuttered, "N-No." He was reluctant to stare into the other man's eyes. Clutching his book so much tighter, he looked to the ground.

The man frowned. "Then what the hell are you doing out here in the rain?! You crazy or something?" A lone drop of rain slid from his temple to his chin, and he wiped it off as he waited for an answer.

Matthew felt something similar to fire rising within him, something so uncharacteristic he barely knew what it was called. But why he felt it at that moment, he didn't know, but it made him snap, "Well, what are you doing out here in the rain, huh?" Almost instantly, he recoiled. The man could still want to kill him! Why was he being so snarky? He bit on his bottom lip and took a step backward, his shy demeanor covering him again like a blanket.

But the man only laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder once more. "True, you've got a point there, Blondie." He smiled toothily, but saw how it didn't put the other at ease. Thinking quickly, he cut the silence with a few words. "So… ah, are you going somewhere?"

Matthew began walking quickly again, when reminded of his home. He gave the stranger a nice view of his back, and he fleetingly worried about how defenseless he really was. Most likely, with a simple push, he'd fall like the leaves in autumn! He cleared his throat, and he heard the haunting footsteps of the man behind him. "Yes, now that you mention it, I'm going home." He heard a barking laugh.

"Really? Down this deserted road?"

Not liking the man's tone, he paused physically, and squinted eyes to drink in a better look of his wet surroundings. The rain still beat against his head, making his hair slick and dark. "I… uh." He realized he didn't recognize the road. Oh, how mortifying. Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse! "I don't… live down here. I think I'm…" He trailed off, because for some reason, he didn't want to give his tailing stranger the satisfaction of being correct. It was such a distant feeling.

He laughed, sounding like a dog again. "You're lost, ain't cha? Knew it. Ha ha, knew it." He took the few steps it took to reach the frozen boy, clasping a tight hand on his shoulder and twisting him around the other way. Once he slung an arm around the flustering Matthew's shoulder, he began walking, but this time, away from the evil depths of the forest and toward the actual town. "I'm so awesome; I just know things like that!" He was thoughtfully beginning to feel the rain coming down. It soaked through his thin black T-shirt and it had squeezed through his worn shoes. He felt so utterly dirty, and he enjoyed it.

Matthew felt fear slowly ease its way into his heart at such contact. He almost felt discourteous to be thinking it, but he had the sinking feeling that this stranger wasn't one of the nice ones. Oh, how Alfred would regret leaving him alone, he was sure…! "M-Mister –"

"Hey," he interrupted brusquely, wagging a single finger as his left foot splashed in a mud puddle. "Don't 'Mister' me. I'm not some old man." He scrunched up his nose. He knew he – the best thing to walk the earth – would never get so saggy and brown.

Intrigued, Matthew interrogated, "How old are you, then?" Lights from the building he remembered walking against before fell on form, making him feel warmer, if only figuratively. He kept his fidgeting hands in the confines of his hoodie.

Smirking, he proudly replied, "Sixteen, almost seventeen!" He leaned down, not wanting to miss the other's reaction. Oh, and what a reaction he got!

"Wh-What?!" Matthew honestly couldn't believe it at first. He stopped walking, and turned to the taller one with astonishment mixing with incredulity on his countenance. He was turning sixteen himself very soon, and he couldn't believe that someone so… tall, muscular, and handsome could actually be only a year older than him. The other didn't resemble an awkward teenager at all! His worries and wonderings of his well-being were sinking into his subconscious as he stared at the other. "But… but how…"

Chuckling, he pulled a muscle-man pose. "I'm so awesome that I look like a totally hot twenty year old, am I right?" He kissed both of his arms affectionately. His short-sleeved, saturated shirt stuck to his bulging muscles, outlining them like a frame. He flexed a few times, more for his own enjoyment than to show off.

Flushing, Matthew avoided his gaze. "Oh, whatever," he scoffed, turning away and recognizing the dingy old street signs. "Um, I think I could make it home from here…" He looked over his shoulder to see a sarcastic expression. Frowning irritably, he snapped, "I can!"

"Yeah, yeah…" He couldn't place the feeling rising in his body, but, true to nature, he impulsively acted upon it. Walking forward, he firmly took the smaller one by the elbow, leading him forward. "I still want to walk you there. If you don't have my awesomeness to ward off evil doers, you won't get too far."

Interestedly enough, Matthew looked up at him, frowned, and clicked his tongue. "Fine, fine!" He didn't feel like arguing. His hunger and inevitable fatigue was pulling at him like the strings of a puppet. Silence fell heavily on them, as they trudged on, Matthew ultimately leading. When he couldn't take it anymore, he simply asked, "What's your name?"

He was startled from his thoughts, but it didn't show on the outside. After making a slight noise in the back of his throat – why hadn't he introduced himself in the first place? – he affirmed, "Gilbert."

"Ah." Matthew found this suitable, and he ultimately replied, "I'm Matthew." But the introductions didn't fill the void of silence that he had hoped that it would have. It was quiet again, before he began to distinguish his home. It was so familiar behind the cloak of darkness… "There," he instructed, vaguely pointing. "I live right there." When he tried to pull away from the grip, he horrifyingly realized that the other smiling student wasn't letting him go. "D-Don't tell me that you're going to walk me to my door…" Pleadingly he looked up, to watch Gilbert's smile crack into something more condemning.

He openly laughed, and as he dragged Matthew forward toward the door step, he exclaimed, "Wasn't going to, but what a great idea!" Oddly, he had so much fun terrorizing this kid! His reactions, and sometimes snarky retorts were so interesting, despite his appearance. To tell the truth, Gilbert had thought that he had been a cute girl lost in the rain, and that was the main reason he had approached the blonde. He was looking forward to shamelessly flirting, and whisking a girl off her feet like the prince he was. But… Matthew satisfied him as well, for whatever reason.

His half-hearted squeals of protest went unheard by the taller male. In his heart Matthew knew he would be into deep trouble when he came home, soaking wet, hours after he should have been home, with some stranger. As they loudly clambered up the front steps, and as Gilbert hurriedly pounded on the door, Matthew braced himself. Who would answer? Any of the options he had seemed bleak. Francis would be armed to the teeth with perverted theories, and release them all without letting another person speak. Alfred would most likely suddenly turn into the dashing older brother, bent on protecting his sibling from anyone. And Arthur… Arthur would probably be the worst. Matthew's frazzled mind couldn't even think up what his British father would do, but he didn't have to, since the door suddenly tore open.

With his hair undone and his taunt fingers tightly clutched within the tangled mass, Francis stood there. A phone was pressed to his ear, which he had been quickly talking into, but when he saw who it was, the black electronic was promptly sent crashing to the floor. Normally, he could never see his seemingly translucent son, but at this moment, all of his worries had been pinned on the student, rendering him visible to the human eye. "_Mathieu_! Wha… where have you been?!" His arms were rockets as he wrapped them around his kin's neck and smothered him to his chest. "We were worried sick!"

Swallowing his selfish urge to relish in the fact that he had been remembered, Matthew sputtered against his father. "I… I…!"

"I rescued him…" Gilbert's usually loud voice was slightly dimmed, as if it was the thing being held so tightly. Red eyes wide, he had them fixed on the older blonde, and his lips pressed firmly against each other, for only a second. "I… found him wandering around. I was awesome, and brought him back home…" His voice was so far away, but still in its normal form.

Francis opened the eyes he had closed in glee, to stare critically at the other standing on his porch. His demeanor subdued, and he unknowingly clutched his son closer. "…Thank you," he gritted out, like his teeth were trying to prevent him from speaking a kind word. After releasing Matthew, he stood straight, and held a moment long staring contest with the red-eyed wonder. He coughed awkwardly, without a smile or twitch of lips, and informed his son, "Let's get inside. It's pouring." Similarly to Gilbert's, his voice lacked life and hung dead in the air while the rain played tuneless melodies. He placed a hand on the middle of his son's back. He opened the door, and urged the other in, not without a careful glance over his shoulder at the other teenager.

But Matthew turned fully to the silverette. "Ah, thank you," he said politely with a winning smile. "I really would have gotten lost, I guess, if you hadn't –"

"Now, now, he knows you're grateful. Let's get inside, it's still raining," Francis said in a hiss, his voice strangled and strained as he tried to keep his temper. Firmly, he pushed his son inside, ignoring the squeak of indignation. When the younger was successfully inside and out of hearing range, Francis turned to the one left waiting. "You can leave now," he said venomously, his façade of toleration dropped, letting hatred slip back in between his words.

"I wasn't planning on staying any longer," Gilbert replied, with his eyes narrowed and his fists clenched in his pockets. And as a fleeting note, as he turned away, he said, "I still think you were wrong!"

Francis cursed, and he picked up the dropped phone, feeling the undying need to toss it at the teenager's head. But he restrained himself, resigning to clench it dangerously between his fingers. He turned about, and slammed the door so loudly behind him that his son gave another shout.

"What's up with you?" Matthew asked, slightly appalled and weary. Though, he was just trying to get the conversation off of himself, trying to avoid the slightly inevitable. His things were on the floor, and his soiled book on the table. Just moments after he sat down at the very corner of the couch – closest to the staircase, in case he needed to run – his father made a distasteful growl.

Rubbing his temples, Francis didn't answer, but ground out through a tight jaw, "…Is what he said true? That you had gotten lost, and he led you home…?" He rubbed his temples tirelessly as his blood boiled beneath his skin. Today hadn't treated him well at all.

Matthew sorted his short bangs away from his forehead before replying, "Yep, of course." He tried staring at his twitching fingers instead of his father's blue eyes. "What… why wouldn't it be true?" In his mind, he was trying to find a way to turn the conversation onto his insufferable twin brother – it had been his fault in the first place.

This seemed to annoy the elder farther, because he made yet another noise. He stared accusingly at him, "He didn't do anything to you, right?" With the bullet bitten, all that was left was the reaction.

Matthew's wet skin tingled at the thought. "N-No! Wh-Why would he?" Red dusted itself across his face, and he looked to his father, since the subject was so condemning for him not to turn all of his attention to it.

Giving a satisfied sigh, Francis ran his fingers through his hair again. "Good, good," he soothed himself. His eyes flickered upward as heavy; hurried footsteps came down the stairs.

"Oh, my God," Alfred wheezed, running past the pair to the front door. He plucked his bomber jacket from the hook, and in his haste to put it on, secured it on his shoulders upside-down. His alarmed blue eyes stared solely at Francis. "I… I forgot Mattie at school! Ah, shoot, shoot!" A pout pulled at his lips, since he knew it wasn't heroic to leave a damsel in distressed for hours. "I… I wanted to cheat off of his homework, but than I realized he was still there! Holy –! What if someone got to him?!" Panting, he locked his hand onto the doorknob, but never turned it, as a smooth and demonic voice stopped him.

"I'm right here, Al," Matthew said with a smile, though malice was written on his face.

Frozen, Alfred turned his head a bit to make sure it wasn't his brother's ghost that had came for revenge. He released a breath, seeing a solid figure sitting on the couch. "Whoa, okay. Whew! Good." Nervously, he pulled the jacket from his frame, and settled it back onto the hook. He gave a smile as bright as the sun. "Can I see that homework, then?"

Even Francis, in his soured and frazzled mood, couldn't suppress a chuckle.

* * *

**A/N**: …I have so many PruCan ideas, and now I know how I can string it up into one multi-chaptered fanfiction. Though I'm terrible at long stories, bare with me! This idea's kinda good. And it's got a sub-plot, too! –wink, wink– If you've already seen it, well… cookies for you~!

This is something – each chapter will be loosely based around a song, since I'm such a wuss for song!fiction. None of these are going to be song!fics, but each chapter title will be the name of the song, and at the end, I'll post what song it is… this one was based around _**With You**_** by Avril Lavigne**. (:

I have some ideas of the pairings… but only Prussia/Canada and England/France are in stone. (Ha ha, I don't even like FrUK. x3 But they fit so well in this story, and their role is so sweet… you'll see.) There's Hungary/Austria in the next chapter... I might add Germany/Italy and Poland/Lithuania. As for America, he'll just be the lone wolf, since I don't really know anyone to pair him with… -shrug-

(Tell me any title ideas – I'm stumped.)

And I'll never post a story without having started the next one, so... here.

**Preview for the next chapter**:

_Gilbert licked his lips for a moment as his eyes scanned the familiar classroom. He locked eyes with a pair of purple ones, and he had to crack a smile, which went unnoticed. He looked back to the instructor._

**R&R**~!


	2. Are You Afraid?

Days, weeks went by, and Matthew's memory of Gilbert was pushed to the very back of his mind. He passed the finals he had been worrying about – and he always took the bus home. Even after forced apologies, he didn't trust his brother at all. Francis still kept a weary eye on his youngest son, since the encounter had shaken him slightly, though he refused to explain to his son why. Everything was somewhat back to normal until one faithful day, in the last of Matthew's classes.

He was sitting in the back row, in the farthest corner from the door. It annoyed him mildly, since no one could see him at all, increasing his chances tenfold of fading into the scene. He huffed. The class – though it was advanced – harbored fools who were intelligent, but didn't act like it, and made the blonde sometimes wonder if they had cheated on the placement tests. But it was none of his concern, and neither was who suddenly walked into the room, grinning and smug. It honestly wasn't, no matter how he suddenly perked up in interest.

"Hey, Teach," Gilbert drawled, hands nestled in his pockets, as he strolled into the Reading classroom as if he had owned the place. A trademark smirk was plastered on his features, and he cocked his head slightly to the side. His heavy and elaborate footsteps made the whole class of underclassmen raise their heads. "Miss me?"

Judging by the sudden twitch of the teacher's eyebrow, Matthew thought that she hadn't missed him at all. "Gilbert, what in the world are you doing here?"

Gilbert licked his lips for a moment as his eyes scanned the familiar classroom. He locked eyes with a pair of purple ones, and he had to crack a smile, which went unnoticed. He looked back to the instructor. "…Got kicked out of my class, they said I wasn't behaving or something. They sent me here, 'cause they know you're the only one who could ever handle me, Mrs. Héderváry."

Elizaveta Héderváry, with a roll of her eyes, stood from her desk. "Only because I know even your hard head can't bend metal." It was an inside joke that none of the students except for the silverette got.

And Gilbert barked a laugh. "Oh, you." He winked toward her.

A growl rose up her throat, but she easily dulled it. "Sit in the back and be quiet," she said loudly to him, pointing to the table behind Matthew, a table in which one chair was sitting behind. She gave another heavy sigh before sitting back down. She turned to her computer, and began making an angry e-mail, to be sent straight to her husband, informing him of the misfortune suddenly placed over her head. Her husband had been sent on a trip by his boss that forced him away from her for a whole two years – though he would come every month, she was uneasy. Her spouse hadn't been gone for a whole day yet, and she had the wrenching urge to e-mail him every hour. And that's just what she had been doing.

Gilbert just continued smiling in the self-appreciative manner he had as he strolled down the aisle, surveying each student in turn. Some stared back at him, others glanced away, and one gave a thumbs-up in appreciation for his annoyance to their teacher. But one student in the back had a different response. He flushed a cute pink and tried to bury his face in his folded arms on the table. Why Matthew was embarrassed was beyond Gilbert, but he knew he might as well take advantage of it. He put a finger under the back of the other's red collar, and pulled so that he was sitting up straight again. Gilbert laughed to himself, and patted Matthew's head, before sitting right behind him, albeit four feet away.

Matthew could seriously feel the eyes boring into the back of his scalp. Those red, thirsty eyes that his father had long ago said for him to avoid. How could he avoid the other now, when they were sitting directly behind him? He murmured soothing words to himself as he looked to the clock – to see in dismay the remaining hour he had left of class. They were just reading! Why couldn't he leave early and do it at home? He felt like he was almost betraying his parent at that point, though he was at no fault. And – he soon realized – Gilbert wasn't about to make anything easy on him. Surprisingly, the other had remembered him – name, face, and all.

Gilbert launched probes at the blonde in the form of undying words. "Psst, Mattie! …Matt! …Matthew! …Matt. Mattie!"

"What?" Matthew returned, hopelessly, with a groan. He didn't need to do much to keep his voice down. Unlike his irresponsible sibling, he hadn't been born with a mouth three times the size of the average teenager.

He smiled. "Hi."

Biting down on his bottom lip, Matthew tried to suppress his nerves. He focused again on the book. But no matter how many times he let the soothing words string into phrases and sentences, it wasn't registering in his mind. He couldn't find his concentration. So he flicked his eyes toward the teacher. She was furiously typing on her computer, not paying attention to the kids around him that were loudly holding conversation. Well, he thought, it couldn't hurt if he just… "It's Gilbert, right?" he said, keeping his posture forward and beginning to doodle in the corner of his notebook, the literature book lightly pushed aside.

There was a pause, and then Gilbert replied with his smirk evident in his voice, "Yeah. There's no possible way you could have forgotten _me_."

Matthew didn't justify that. He tilted his head back, his eyes cast downward as his random strokes of the pencil began making real images. Maybe they weren't real things, but his mind began seeing figures. "Eh. What are you doing here?"

"Didn't you hear my awesome voice earlier? I said I got kicked out of my class. They just couldn't handle the awesome." He clicked his tongue and muttered, "What a shame…"

"What was your 'awesome' doing?" While his pencil scurried on paper, his thoughts strung into a list in his mind. Gilbert was egotistical and narcissistic, not unlike his own brother; he didn't abide to the rules, and obvious bad-boy-wannabe. Or maybe he wasn't a wannabe, Matthew couldn't tell yet. The jeans the other was wearing that were professionally tattered with tears across the knees and shins, and the dark shirts promoting popular groups both expressed a dedication to bad-boyness. He subconsciously chewed on his lip as his father's warnings began to have actual depth to them, not just stereotypical things based on first-meetings. …But maybe he was being stereotypical himself, by attributing personality traits to clothing. He sighed; it was all so complicated.

"My awesome was totally managing to hit three home runs in a row!"

Matthew actually chanced a look over his shoulder. "Home runs? What, were you in gym?" The other didn't look like it at all, not that he was still focusing on outer appearances.

Gilbert chuckled, shaking his head as he admired such an innocent mind. "Nope, me and my friends play a version of baseball in class with paper balls… it's too awesome to go in depth with." He brushed his pale hair from his eyes with a cock of his head.

He looked forward again, suspicions confirmed – total bad-boy. He wanted to groan, knowing that it was yet another person he'd have to avoid in the hallways. Matthew was like a clean slate, but easily marked on. He wanted to keep his angelic image through high school, and into college – forever, actually. "…Oh. Um, who was winning?"

Gilbert moved from his laid-back posture to sitting on the edge of the chair, the table pressing into his ribcage. "What?! Do you even have to ask? I never lose!" The exclamation was a bit too loud.

Snapping her head upward, Elizaveta glared with the heat of a fire at her former student. "Gilbert, you're to be seen, not heard!" she barked. When she looked back to her computer screen, she added another paragraph to the script of her message – elaborating on the silverette's obnoxiousness for the third time.

He only nodded to her, then with a shine in his eye that only a man could have, he looked to Matthew and said, "She's totally into me."

It felt as if the words of Gilbert's sentence sent a volt of electricity through the younger's spine. He bristled, and turned over his shoulder, incredulity written on his face. "G-Gilbert, what are you saying?! She's… she's so much older than us."

"Nah," he said with a shake of his head. "She's probably in her early thirties, something like that."

"E-Exactly! I really doubt that Mrs. Héderváry would… would be into that sort of thing!"

"What sort of thing?"

"P-Pedophilia, Gilbert," Matthew hissed, as if was a disallowed word. Which, in all reality, it almost was. The silence that replied to that made him turn around again – and he saw Gilbert doubled over, shaking with restricted laughter and nearly pounding his fist on the poor brown table. The blonde flushed with his embarrassment visible.

"Y-Y-You say it like it's a bad thing," Gilbert rasped, through gasps of laughter.

Again, Matthew felt a shock run its way through his system. "…You can't be serious, Gil," he whispered, the nickname slipping like thread. "D-Do you actually _like_ her like that? I…"

Calmed, Gilbert rested his elbows on the table and placed his chin in his palms. "Maybe. I dunno," he distantly said, making Matthew feel uncomfortable at the seriousness of his tone.

Matthew looked to his doodles, and saw a beak amongst the lines. Instantly, he went to making it into something to get his mind off the other subject. Judging by his next statement, the drawings didn't distract him for long. "And I mean, she's married," He said more to himself.

"No competition," Gilbert replied breezily with a wave of his hand.

Mostly surprised that he had been heard, Matthew flushed again and stuttered, "Wh-What?"

"I've met her husband. He's too wussy to even be called a man! I mean, I could seriously whoop his ass with both eyes closed."

He crouched down, closer to his paper that had quickly filled with lines, circles and a triangle or two. He knew he couldn't trust his mind to come up with anything else unoffending or comfortable to make conversation out of, so he closed his mouth and remained silent, while he still felt eyes on the back of his head.

When class was dismissed, Matthew had been so absorbed in his drawing – which had become awfully detailed – that he jumped and scrambled to put his things away. Before he could even pick up his things, Gilbert was waiting beside him, hands locked in his pockets. And before he could shamefully pull the scribbled-on notebook from view, Gilbert had brought it closer for further inspection.

Between crazy messes of lines and darkened shapes and figures, Gilbert was able to see a lightly detailed little bird hiding. A soft and rather uncharacteristic smile pulled on one side of his lips. The bird was shaded, and he could see it being a calm yellow color. He wrenched his eyes away from the paper to meet pools of purple. "…Can I keep this?" he asked quietly, referring to the piece of notebook paper.

Obviously surprised, Matthew stopped stuffing the rest of his things in his book bag to look perplexedly upward. He blinked, and mumbled, "Well, I-I don't see why not." A customary swipe of red was painted on his cheeks, revealing his confusion.

Gilbert nodded his head with a toothy smile. "Awesome," he said as he ruthlessly ripped it from the coils. Matthew disciplined him on how rude that was, and he laughed.

From her computer desk, Elizaveta was taking in the scene with a rather unusual glitter to her eyes. "Oh, so that's what it is," she said quietly, very cryptically, with an odd grin. On her list of annoying students, Gilbert went down a few spots, and on favorite students, Matthew went up. Both of them, on her mental list, had little hearts next to them.

* * *

"Insufferable little brat," Arthur said distastefully, downing his water like beer, and putting it back down with more than enough force. He stared blearily before him, at the opposite wall of his kitchen. Within the cream pigment it was painted in, he tried to find any logic to any of the mess he was tangled up so tightly in. "Why does he think he can mangle in your business? He's just a stupid teenager; he was only, what, six years old when the decision was made?"

Francis thoughtfully twisted a lock of his own golden hair on a finger. He had spilled the events of the night before to his husband, always the late worker. Now, he was beginning to regret it, since the fierce flares of emotion in the other's eyes looked just about to kill. "Oi, it was probably his father that told him." Just mentioning the father of the annoying teenager made the normally placid Frenchman's feathers ruffle.

"Don't remind me," he replied, in a groan with a barely-there stutter.

"Though why he cares so much is beyond me," Francis reflected, crossing his arms from the doorway, and looking to the ceiling. "It doesn't involve him at all. It… doesn't even involve his father at all, really!"

Arthur sat up straighter at the comment, guilt and remorse flooding his mind and heart. But he said nothing about his inner turmoil, and muttered through his glass, "…Huh" while flicking his eyes toward anything but Francis'.

* * *

Gilbert had a big, self-assured smile on his face, as bright as if it had never dimmed.

Matthew, on the other hand, didn't think that his lips could frown any deeper. Again, there was a heavy arm draped across his shoulders. Again, he had been trying to get home when the other had attached to him like a thirsty leech. He didn't mind Gilbert, personally. But with his father's warning, that gleam deep within the other's dark eyes, and his own agenda… he wasn't sure if a friend like _that_ was who he needed. A friend who threw things in class, flirted with teachers, and was ultimately a bad influence. "Gilbert," he began uneasily, rewrapping his arms around his book so that the grip was tighter, and more supportive to his mental woes. "My dad really doesn't want you around me anymore. I… I honestly don't know why, but I think I'm going to listen to him…"

Gilbert's contact was gone within an instant, and again, both of his hands were in the pockets of his tight jeans. His gaze was hard and unwavering as he looked to the petite blonde. "What the hell? Are you some sort of pansy, or something? You don't need to play by the rules, no one owns you." His explicative choice of words increased the angrier he got.

Catching the furious undertone to the other's smooth words, Matthew's mind panicked, thinking that he had crossed some sort of line and was going to pay the price. He searchingly looked up into the silverette's eyes. "I-I-I just… I'm not a… I just like not getting in trouble; i-it's just my thing… I'm the good one."

With a huff of impatience, he quickly replied, "Well, are you doing anything wrong by talking to me, huh? Anything illegal?" They had stopped walking by this point – Gilbert facing the blonde with his arms aggravatingly crossed and Matthew fidgeting and choosing to fix his eyes on the ground. The wind attributed to their conversation with calming notes that fell on deaf ears.

"N-N-No, but to my dad… yeah. H-He thinks you're bad for me or something…"

"And what do you think?"

Matthew hadn't a justifiable response. He had barely thought about it. Eyes wide and desperate, he scanned the ground while his mind ran in circles. "I-I-I…"

"You don't even have your own opinion, do you?" Gilbert found that horrible, and he leaned down a bit to catch a glimpse of the underclassman's face. But he couldn't get one, since the other had his neck bent in such an abasing manner, it was pitiful to look at him at all. His resolve settled, and he sighed heavily.

"No," was the surprisingly strong, albeit a bit late, response. "I don't. Though I wouldn't mind a friend."

The silverette had trouble following the blonde's train of thought. From fathers, to friends – it was most likely a twisted mass of metal in the other's head. He ran his fingers through his hair, contemplating. If being friends meant that he could stay around the other for a little while, he wouldn't mind – the blonde was pretty darn entertaining, with his blushing and stuttering like a girl, and his snippy remarks and defensive comments like a hormonal girlfriend. But he wouldn't mind. "Then, forget about what your father said," he affirmed with a nod, settling it in his own mind as well.

Matthew looked up from the ground then. His eyes were shaded – full of suspicion, full of unanswered questions. "I still don't get why he doesn't like you. He's not usually so… cynical." He shifted his weight onto his other foot, as if balancing theories in his mind.

Gilbert growled, "I don't care. He can think what he wants to think." A repulsive curse word nearly fell from his lips, but then he realized the other's son was standing right before him. He cleared his throat of all ill-intention. "Listen, we barely know each other. Does this all really matter, at the moment?" He was tired of questions, and tired of having his past playing before his mind after every probing subject.

Matthew scrunched up his nose, unsatisfied. But never the one to pry, he politely agreed, "Well, I guess not, then… but just don't come home with me, 'kay? He almost busted a vein that first time…" He remembered the awkward questions that had come up, and his face flushed.

He allowed this. "Alrighty then; that seems fair." The blonde gratefully smiled and left, thinking that the issue was now behind him. But with a grin, Gilbert was already half-way through a plan that would grate on that damn Frenchman's nerves at long last.

* * *

**A/N**: …Okay. I stole a Family Guy line. I don't own it, don't sue me.

I added a sub-plot behind the sub-plot. –laughs– It makes a lot of things make sense, but it's such another whole… plot. –sighs– Oh well, you guys don't mind the complexities, correct? I've got like, what, three-… no, when I count all of them… four or five plots to this. Trust me, the action hasn't even begun! You will never see it coming. (At least, I hope you won't.) Oh, and who's Gilbert's father?! Who, who? –waves arms– I know~! …But I won't tell you, at least not _yet_.

And I know France and Prussia are friends. I know this. But I can also see them being enemies if something gets between them, or if something happens – and trust me, in this story, something has happened. I'm just taking my time getting to it. (:

Song for this chapter: _**Are You Afraid?**_** by Rooney**. I wanted to add more to the chapter that fit with the song, but it didn't work out. –shrugs– I personally like short chapters, though. I don't like having to sit down for hours just to read one whole chapter… so there might be a lot of short chapters to this. And I'm forcing myself to write at least three thousand words a chapter! –fist pump–

**Preview for the next chapter**:

_The early Saturday morning's light filtered through the dry, wide window to Matthew's left, and the store's cool air conditioning sent a chill down his spine. He rested his other hand on the shopping cart as well. "Um, would you like to help me finish my list? That is, if you're not busy…"_

**R&R~!**


	3. There She Goes

It was irony, Matthew told himself, that his father would sent him out grocery shopping and he'd run into Gilbert, of all people. It was almost funny enough to make him crack a smile. With the cart still clasped in one hand, he reached up with the other to issue a wave, and the silverette caught his eye. He smiled when the other sifted through the crowds of shoppers to reach him. "Hi," he customarily greeted, when the Prussian was within reach.

"Hi," Gilbert replied, looking over his shoulder, for a little old lady was walking a bit too close for comfort.

"Funny meeting you here," he said naturally. "I thought that was the last time I'd see you, yesterday."

While withholding information from the other, he mumbled, "Yeah, me too." He relaxed as the lady passed.

The early Saturday morning's light filtered through the dry, wide window to Matthew's left, and the store's cool air conditioning sent a chill down his spine. He rested his other hand on the shopping cart as well. "Um, would you like to help me finish my list? That is, if you're not busy…"

"What," the silverette replied, with a smirk, motioning vaguely with his hands, "can't reach the high shelves, huh?"

Matthew rolled his eyes, and turned the shopping cart away as he walked in the opposite direction. "Oh, never mind." He was embarrassed he had proposed the idea in the first place. He strolled even faster when he heard heavy footsteps tailing behind him. It was so familiar.

"Nah, nah, I'll help you. I've got nothing better to do, anyway," Gilbert mumbled lowly, suddenly right beside him and looking that he hadn't a care. "What do you need?" Before a response was given, he took the thin paper from the other's hands, and regarded it briefly. It was the classic list, nothing extraordinary, except… "Why is 'maple syrup' written on here…?" He counted. "Eight times?!"

Shamefully, the blonde looked away with a deep flush. He cleared his throat, and explained, "Usually Dad – … I mean, Arthur goes shopping. And he goes strictly by the list, getting each item… and I kinda need a lot of syrup."

"…What in the hell for?" He tried to keep his voice level, and succeeded. Jus the mention of the Englishman's name made him scowl, but he managed to hide it behind the slip of paper. His empty hand clenched into a fist, before it relaxed.

"What else?" Matthew snapped. "Pancakes." He scanned the shelves and pulled down his brother's favorite cereal, whose box was decked in red, white, and blue. It clattered into the cart. He steered into the next aisle, the silverette at his heels.

"How many of them do you eat?!" He casually handed back the list when requested.

Reluctant to say, Matthew occupied himself with trying to read the small print on a Pop-Tart box, attempting to figure out exactly when it would expire. Then when he felt that gaze on his head again, he winced and said, "…J-Just a couple, not that much, r-really…"

Gilbert felt an embarrassing moment coming up, and he jumped on it. "Wait, why is your voice wavering? Got a little addiction there?" He playfully pressed his knuckles to the other's shoulder a few times, until the Canadian whined.

"Stop, Gil!"

With a pause, he dropped his hands, though his smile didn't falter. "'Gil'? Seriously? You've given me a _pet name_?" Goodness, the underclassmen resembled a girl more and more each moment he spent with him.

If it was possible to die from embarrassment, Matthew would have been the first one to go. He sputtered, leaning far into the freezer section to cool his face. The misty glass shielded his countenance from the other's critical view. "I'm sorry," he finally managed to say, "I-I just do that with… some people. Sorry…" He pulled back, revealing himself fully, a heated face and trembling hands that clutched a container of ice cream. He stared at the ground.

For some reason, Gilbert felt a swell of fury in his chest. He expressed a displeased scowl, and reached out with his hand to lift up the younger's chin. Wide, purple eyes stared involuntarily into his, and he captured their attention full on. "Listen," he began, his tone biting and snapping, "I have no idea what's so damn interesting about the damn ground, but could you stop staring at it all the time? You know there are more awesome things to look at up here, right?" He pointed to himself.

There was a moment in which their breaths remained baited, and the surrounding noise faded into the background. But Matthew broke it with a sharp twist of his neck, pulling his head from the other's hold. He pulled in a shaky breath and turned to his cart, clutching it between tight hands. He said, "Th-Th-The maple syrup's in the next a-a-aisle."

And as the blonde scooted away, with the cart creaking and crying, Gilbert was ever-so-slightly disappointed that he had seen and reached out to that bright, shining light, but that the light was too shy to grasp his hand. He exhaled, and followed the other, but at a slightly less frantic pace. When he finally caught up to him, he made sure to push the clouds of awkwardness aside and say, "So how many pancakes do you eat to need all this?" He referenced to the ten bottles of syrup being dumped into the cart.

Matthew bristled. He had thought that after that confrontation the other wouldn't follow him anymore. He bit down on his lip, adding another bottle for the sake of it. "I just… really like pancakes, and… it annoys me if I run out of syrup. So I make sure that I… don't."

He was about to laugh out loud, but then he caught the serious tone that the blonde had. He swallowed his chuckle. "Ah, how… smart."

"Eh," was the reply.

"You know… I've never really had pancakes."

That pulled the Canadian from his bout of melancholy abruptly. He turned his head, staring. "Wh… what?" It just didn't seem conceivable. Not had pancakes? It made his head spin and his eyes flash. He had never heard anything so terrible in his short life…

Gilbert smiled, finding the horror in the other's expression amusing. "Nope. Never."

Matthew had to fix that. He knew he had to fix it. It was his duty. "I'll make you some." He grinned as he said it, the idea seeming pleasant to him. Yes, that's how it would be fixed – if he let Gilbert taste pancakes that he made, there would be no way that they'd be cheap knock-offs.

"And how in the world," Gilbert proposed, "Do you plan to do that?" He was interested. Never before had anyone offered to… make him something. Or _cook_ him something. It seemed weird, and kind of girly. Matthew cooking. He wrinkled his nose.

"What?" Matthew questioned, not liking the other's tone. "Do you not think I can do it?" He leaned against the cart, looking over his glasses just a bit. The sleeves of his red hoodie were a bit too long – like he liked it – and he played with the material with his fingers.

Shrugging vaguely, the Prussian just smirked. "I'm not saying that. It's just…" His words dropped, and he made a noise in the back of his throat as he adverted his gaze.

"…Just what?" Matthew blinked.

He laughed. "Don't get all defensive now, birdie." Leaning toward the other, he took a step and mused his hair. It was rather… light, and fluffy, despite its frizzy appearance. His fingers lingered as he continued, "…It's just having a cute little girl cooking for me'll make me feel like we're a married couple." He melodramatically shook his head. "And we just met."

After feeling all the blood in his body rush to his face, Matthew nearly choked on an embarrassed squeal. But he did manage to pull himself from under the other's hand. He placed his palms on his hair, as if his hair was the thing being violated. He stuttered, "I-I just want t-to let you have p-p-pancakes, that's a-all! …And I'm not a g-girl!" He pouted at the accusation.

Gilbert loved the reaction he got, and he grinned while he crossed his arms. "'kay, that's fine. I'll let you make me some, but they better be awesome." He was triumphant in seeing that all morbid waves were gone from the other's purple eyes. They were on a more comfortable subject now, and he hoped to stay on it. Emotions were not his favorite. "I'll give you my address, and you'll stop by with some… say, tomorrow?"

Gulping thickly, Matthew was reminded of his father. Of his warning, of his cursing when he thought his son wasn't around… What would he think of him visiting? He chewed on his bottom lip. Unless… unless he didn't tell them. The thought made his heart skip in rebellion. He gave a nod. "Yes, okay."

Gilbert laughed under his breath, a rather husky laugh along the lines of "Kesesese…" before plucking the list and the attached pen from the cart. "These things better taste incredible, you're going to be entering into a wide world of awesome…" He handed it back, his smirk firm.

Matthew quickly nodded. "Yes, you've probably never tasted anything so great." He put on his angelic smile, showing how sure he was on the subject. He knew nothing better than pancakes. He folded the list over – he knew what else they needed – and tucked it safely into his front pocket.

* * *

He had no reason to be nervous, really. He shouldn't be looking over his shoulder every other minute, thinking that one of his family members would appear out of no where and question what he was doing. His pounding heart didn't help him calm down. Matthew steadied his breath, and pulled a large bowl from the counter, then a big spoon and other objects from other places. All the while, he was trying to keep it all silent; though small clinks and clangs were inevitable. He didn't have enough time to actually make the pancakes at his house – he was sure Gilbert wouldn't mind if he made them at his home. Then it would teach the silverette how to make them as well! That would be great. He managed a weak smile, despite the fact that he was disobeying orders… He shook his head, and threw everything into the tan bag he had dug out of his closet and pulled it up and over his shoulder. Scurrying into the living room, his hand just touched the door when a sudden voice made him nearly have a heart attack.

"Mon cheri, where are you going?" Francis wearily rubbed his eyes, always being the one to wake at the crack of noon. His shirt stretched down to below his knees, and his long flannel pants billowed around his ankles. He just had risen from his bed, and hadn't had enough time to fluff up, as he liked to call it; his hair still showed the aftermath of his pillow. But he didn't need to dress up for his son.

After suppressing a startled scream, Matthew turned. "Um, I, uh…" This hadn't been part of his plan. Not at all. He had wanted to sneak out without getting caught. And now he had to lie. He couldn't lie! He had never been good at lying… So he managed to filter through his mind and find a prime example to imitate – for he had always been good at mimicking other people's traits through observation. He used his brother as a model for lying. Just plaster on a smile and a completely innocent excuse. "Oh, I'm going to the library – I've got a test next week." His grin was bullet-proof.

Francis found this acceptable, and he nodded, letting his hair bounce with him. "Ah, yes, okay." He waved to him with a flick of his wrist.

"Thanks," chimed Matthew, keeping his voice faultless and believable. He quickly pulled open the door, letting the cool air humor his hair. When he shut the door behind him, he released a deep breath and let his heart calm. That had been close. He reminded himself to thank his brother later for being such a great liar. He readjusted the bag – it was heavy, and some sort of spoon had been pressing into his side – and pulled the slip of paper from his pocket. Gilbert's handwriting was messy and hard to read, but after determinately staring at it all morning he was able to realize that he lived within walking distance. It might take him… awhile, but he needed to spread the joy of pancakes!

* * *

Since he knew he was going to have a visitor, he realized that he might have wanted to change out of his pajamas before opening the door… but he was too awesome for modesty. Gilbert had been lazing around, enjoying mid-afternoon television shows, when a timid knock came upon his door. Instantly he knew who it was. He stretched, looking down at his appearance. Large shirt that came down to his hip and classic red boxers… eh, decent enough. He stood, and let his toes take a moment to get used to the cool wooden floor before padding over to the door. When he pulled it open, he ran his fingers through his hair. "It's kind of early, birdie."

"It's two in the afternoon," Matthew, appalled, defended. He couldn't understand why everyone around him seemed to not be morning people. He enjoyed the early morning breeze, and the sunlight that entered his window. It was unforgivable that everyone else missed it daily.

Gilbert found this acceptable, and opened it wider. "Come in, come in…" He put on a hospitable smile, bending over a bit like a servant would do. And after the blonde shyly walked in, he closed it behind him, and looked the other up and down. "So where are the 'cakes?"

"Oh, about that…" Matthew looked to the side, blushing at the other's attire – he wasn't completely surprised – and blushing at the other's accusation. "I, uh… I didn't have time to m-make them at home. So I…" He pulled off the bag, and held it out for the other to inspect. "I b-brought all the stuff I'd need." At the dead-panned glare he received, he tried to quirk his lips up but they ultimately fell back down. "Sorry."

Another flame lit in the Prussian's chest. "Stop apologizing, you did nothing wrong." He reached out, and roughly took the bag. He sifted through it. "This is all… basic stuff," he noted, flicking his eyes upward to the blonde.

"Mhmm," he replied proudly. "Pancakes are pretty easy to make, and they don't take much! I've got the box in there, and the syrup, and a few other things, and that's all you need."

"…That doesn't sound awesome."

Irritably, Matthew rolled his eyes and took the bag back. "I'll make you eat your words," he sang, before adding, "Where's your kitchen?"

"This way," Gilbert grumbled, not excited to be eating something he now realized was only flour, eggs, and milk… that didn't sound good at all. He scrunched up his nose as he walked past the Canadian, into a long corridor, and then motioned to the door to his left. "Have your fun. I think I'm going to get changed."

Matthew nodded in agreement, walking into the kitchen and placing his bag on the table. "That would be wise."

"Tch," Gilbert said, before pulling away from the doorway and stalking down the hallway.

He smiled, and then turned back to his bag. He hummed, loving the feeling coming over him. It was a nice day, judging by the view he had of a few wavering trees from the window. He pulled out the pancake mix, and then the bowl – it was a deep, cherry colored plastic bowl, one of his favorites. His prized mixing spoon was kept clean, maintaining its porcelain white color. It was ideal – his two favorite colors assisting him in making his favorite meal. He placed the bowl on the kitchen's island, bringing the mix with it. After pouring just enough batter (nearly the whole box), he put it next to the sink, and brought out his measuring cup to get just enough water. But as he was doing that, something caught his eye. A picture was homely poised next to the fridge. It seemed like a family portrait… he leaned in to look at it in more detail, when his eyes were covered in darkness. He made a startled noise, and tried to pry the hands off.

"Kesesese… You're such a girl," Gilbert murmured into the other's ear, before pulling away. He leaned against the island, his eyebrow quirked and waiting for the blonde to turn around. And when he did, the reaction was more than he had bargained for.

"N-N-Not funny," Matthew stammered, passing a hand over his face to clear it of all emotion. It had been such a shock, he was still shaking. "…Not funny." Then, with a dusty color of red over his cheeks, he peered over his hand to see Gilbert, fully clothed. A thin black shirt – not unlike the one he had worn on that faithful, rainy day – rested on his shoulders, and his dark jeans seemed uncomfortably skin-tight. The blonde sniffed indignantly, and put his hands at his sides. He felt awfully out-of-style for some reason, standing there in the red hoodie he wore all the time and blue jeans. He had never really cared what he looked like before – why did he all of a sudden feel the urge to change?

Gilbert distractedly messed with the bangs obscuring his red eyes. Thoughtfully, he asked, "Done yet? I actually didn't eat lunch so I could save room for your 'cakes." He tucked his hands into his pockets and gave a cock-sure grin.

With a gulp, Matthew calmed down and complained, "I've barely even started yet." He turned back to the sink, and filled up the cup with water before dumping it into the bowl of powder. Slowly, he started stirring. Silent moments passed – so many that he actually figured the host had perambulated into the living room. He began humming again, and then opened the fridge to get the milk and eggs; he hoped the other didn't mind him borrowing. He placed those on the counter, next to the bowl, and closed the door. Before splitting the eggs, he stretched his arms above his head as a warm-up. With the yolks sitting at the bottom of the bowl, he poured the milk in as well. Then, his favorite part came. He picked up his spoon and began stirring. He liked that part because it was really the only part that he got to add his own spice to the recipe. If he stirred it a lot, the pancakes came out smooth and even. Or if he was feeling lazy, he wouldn't stir it as much and it would come out a lot thicker. He enjoyed putting his – however translucent – personality into what he did.

"Oh, come on, you're doing it wrong!" The sharp cry splintered the blonde's thoughts. Gilbert came up behind him, and put his arm around to grasp the spoon. "Do it faster, like this, I'm hungry," he complained, while beginning to stir the batter in a way resembling a tornado. The batter splattered over the sides, and some of it stuck to the Canadian's jacket.

Matthew actually cried out in surprise that time. He pulled his hands away and pressed against the other's chest. "You're getting it everywhere, Gil, stop!" At the comment, the silverette seemed to stir it faster. There didn't seem to be much batter left anymore. It coated the walls, clung to their hair, and covered their hands. Gilbert was having a grand old time; it seemed, by the joy radiating from his shaking laugh, the laugh he felt against his back. Finding no other escape, Matthew scooped up a pile of goo from the counter and turned to smash it into the upperclassman's face. "Ha!" He shouted starkly, a scowl pulling at his fine lips. "That's what you get for ruining my pancakes!" Maybe he did have a small addiction to the things.

Gilbert stumbled back a bit until he hit the island. He shuddered against the cold material, before rubbing it off of his features, and reaching out to muse it into the other's hair. "Ha, that's what you get for ruining my awesome face!" He smiled a bit when the blonde turned around with such a scandalized expression.

"You're asking for it," the Canadian growled, something deep and husky in the back of his throat. That noise was something he had seen his British father do, and had successfully learned to mimic. Not that he really used it that often. He grabbed the spoon and playfully smacked it on the other's head a few times, until the silverette winced and moved away.

The Prussian ran all the way across to the other side of the island, so that a solid piece of wood and marble separated him from a batter-laden spoon-wielder. He reached up to take some of the batter in his hair onto his fingers. He licked it off with a wide grin. "You don't scare me, birdie," he murmured, taunting the other into action.

The poking jibes succeeded in rousing Matthew. His eyes flashed with uncharacteristic fury, and he dashed around. He followed the Prussian as he ran, but finally managed to lead him into a corner. "This is for the pancakes," he chimed with a smile, as he raised the spoon way above his head.

"For the awesome!" Gilbert screamed, grinning madly, and reaching forward to grab the smaller around the waist. Easily, he hoisted it up onto his left shoulder. "Ha ha ha, I think I win," he mumbled calmly, walking into the living room with his luggage in tow.

Kicking and screaming, Matthew dropped the spoon. It clattered and splattered on the white kitchen floor. Finally fearing for his well-being, he fisted his hands in the back of the other's shirt, trying to steady himself. He couldn't believe how unfair it was. Who stopped a mock fight not even two minutes into it by lifting the other? He'd never seen it before… well, wait, yes he had – he and his extremely strong brother got into spats when they were younger. He'd been in that position before. "Gilbert, this isn't over!"

"I win," Gilbert just replied, dumping the other into the large couch without warning. He smirked, and crossed his arms, peering down at the flustered blonde who was staring up at him in an outraged manner.

"That wasn't fair," the Canadian whimpered, sitting up so he didn't smudge the flawless couch with the goo. He tenderly pressed his hand to the back of his hand, and felt the batter squish against his palm. "Ugh, I'm a mess!"

"It's only your hair!"

"And my jacket," he huffed. He looked around, noticing how spotless the room looked compared to his disposition. He heaved a sigh. "I just hope your parents don't get upset…" He glanced back to the kitchen, and he could see the specks of imperfection tainting the scene of cleanliness. With a sigh, he looked pleadingly to the older, "I promise I'll clean it up."

Gilbert shook his head, and sat down next to the other. "Nah, my dad's not a neat-freak."

"Where is he?" Matthew asked curiously. Surely their yelling and screaming would have alerted some sort of attention from the neighboring rooms…

He easily replied, "Work. So it's all me!"

Matthew was about to question if the other had any siblings, or maybe a mother, but he knew that was extremely out of place. He had never gotten a good look at that picture in the kitchen. He leaned back into the soft, blue material, careful not to let his golden locks brush the fabric. "So how am I going to make you pancakes now?" he asked, fighting an amused smile.

"…Come over some other time, or something," Gilbert suggested, albeit a bit reluctantly. He had never invited anyone over twice before. It was such a different sensation, knowing that he was planting the seeds that might bloom into a friendship. Had he ever had a friend? There was that Spaniard in most of his classes that he was fond of… but loneliness had usually been his best man. And hadn't Matthew even admitted that he was looking for a friend as well? They could fit together perfectly, and fill the voids in each other's lives… "Yeah, yeah, do that."

Gratefully, Matthew smiled. "Okay, sure. I wouldn't mind that." He rose, intending on fixing the mess he had made in the cookery. After taking a few steps, he turned. "Aren't you going to help me clean up?"

"No." He gripped the remote, and turned on the television.

The smile faded. "What? Why not! You're the one who caused most of the mess anyway!"

"Dun feel like it." In his mind, Gilbert was adding things to a list. The list had all of the buttons he could push to get Matthew into such a pissed-off mood: messing with his pancakes, being irresponsible, and ultimately – he guessed – just being himself. He gave a smirk over his shoulder. "You can take care of it, can't cha, honey?"

Fuming, he defended, "I'm not your wife, shut up." He fought the pout on his lips, but lost. He knew it made him look more like a girl, so he blushed and turned his head to prevent the other from spotting it. "I'm not a girl, either," he said more to himself.

"I never said you were my wife, or a girl," he said quietly. Gilbert glanced at the clock. It was nearly three in the afternoon... He laughed out loud. "You do know my dad'll be home in a few minutes, right?" Though he had no intention of letting his father see the other – just by saying his last name would send his father into a tailspin. He sighed. "Gosh, now I've got to help you clean…" He pulled himself from the couch, and slowly walked toward the one who was flitting around the kitchen like a crazed animal. "Calm down, birdie, we can get this done," he tried to sooth, as he picked up the bowl and moved to rinse it under the sink. The blonde was using a sponge to scrub the walls and counters, with that panicked expression still on his face. "Birdie," he laughed, "Calm down."

He just huffed guiltily, scrubbing down the counters harshly – he was pretending he was wiping the smirk from the other's devilish face.

* * *

**A/N**: Ha ha, isn't fluff so much fun~? I was talking to **orangepencils**, telling her how I'm going to have to show the relationship between them growing – and she replied with, "That's okay, you can add a look of cute!awkward moments." …That basically inspired the pancake scene. 3 And I had pancakes this morning. –shrug– The scene was so much fun; I was giggling as I typed. They are too cute, too cute. For some reason, I'm having trouble with these chapters, since I don't exactly know what to do next, and I have school, so I might be slow, but… ehehe, bear with me please. ^^U I could have added more to this chapter, then I was like, "Eh…" So. :)

The song for this chapter was: _**There She Goes**_** by Sixpence None the Richer**, which is such an awesome song and I think it explains this chapter a lot – how their relationship just bloomed. (Finally, right?)

**Preview for the next chapter**:

_He sighed, and calmingly rubbed his temples. If he drowned it out, he might be able to keep focusing. But the more that voice chimed, the less he was able to make it fade into the background. It was insistent, and so harshly uttered it felt like it was right beside his ear. And it almost was._

**R&R**~!


	4. No Rain

He sighed, and calmingly rubbed his temples. If he drowned it out, he might be able to keep focusing. But the more that voice chimed, the less he was able to make it fade into the background. It was insistent, and so harshly uttered it felt like it was right beside his ear. And it almost was. He glared to his side. "Why did you kick him out of his seat?" he hissed.

Gilbert shrugged, tapping his fingers and the desk he had confiscated. "The kid doesn't mind, neither does Teach. So I'm going to be sitting right here." He was sitting to the Canadian's right, and he had the perfect view of the other's features. Now he didn't have to stare at the back of his head. Hair was only interesting for a short while.

Matthew turned his head around to send an apologetic gaze to Kiku – the one who used to be sitting beside him. "I'm sorry, isn't he just so annoying?" He ignored the utterance of "You got the first letter right…" from next to him.

Kiku, ever the civilized, shook his head. "No, I find Gilbert-san quite interesting." He felt slightly embarrassed to be calling the other by his first name, but he didn't know the upperclassman's surname. Sitting at the table in the back, he was able to spread out his things a bit more generously – he focused on the positives.

"He took your seat," he exclaimed, motioning to the other. If only Kiku was capable of just a little outrage… He glanced sidelong at the Prussian, annoyance flaring in his eyes. It wasn't that he minded the other – but when the silverette was making comments every two seconds, and making him lose his focus, it ultimately became less pleasing. He had a feeling that the older had _purposely_ gotten in trouble _again_ so that he could march down there and _bother_ him.

"I know, and it is okay," Kiku assured, putting on a smile. Politely, he ducked his head to continue reading, like they were supposed to be doing. Plus, if the conversation continued, he knew it would have to fall to a side – against the upperclassman, or with. And his main goal in life was to remain on the fence, so he could stay on everyone's pleasant side. He delicately sipped at the tea he had poured into his water bottle, so many hours ago. He had been careful to save some for last period – a book and cool tea always lightened his mood.

Matthew rubbed at his forehead again, disregarding the mumbled "Kesesese" that reached his ears. He bent his neck, glaring down at the words and phrases outlined on the pages. Though there was a distinct string of words from his right side that were a lot more interesting.

The smile plastered to his face was one others had deemed as 'scandalous' or even 'troublesome'. So that's what he called it as well. Gilbert ran his fingers through his hair before continuing, in a harsh, low hiss, to prevent the information to reach anywhere else but its target. "…You know, if you introduce Mrs. Héderváry to a good classical song… or a book or show with gay side characters… she'll be like putty in your hands?" He had stolen a pencil from a nearby classmate – she hadn't noticed, probably too amazed with his great looks – and was tapping it excessively against the wooden desk, each separate 'tap' slow and unhurried.

"…Why would I do that?" Matthew asked, simply curious, and more than a bit perturbed at how the other would know such odd information. His eyes never strayed from his book – he let the words sink in, but he didn't acknowledge them.

"Eh, for fun?" Gilbert looked toward him, taking in how his lower lip stuck out a bit farther than the top one – whether intentional or not, it was intriguing. And he had that one, loopy curl that jutted out from his mop of hair. He had noticed it before, but had never seen how pronounced it actually was. It almost looked like he had licked it up with gel, or something of the sort. But it was naturally shiny, not fake and artificial. "Oh wait, do you know what 'fun' means?" He cracked a smile, watching as the blonde looked through his pale (Gilbert would say girlish) eyelashes to initiate a small and peeved look.

"I know what it means," he moaned, looking back down. Carefully, he closed his book, knowing he'd have to continue at home like he had before. He watched the cover of the book, and used his finger to trace its multiple lines. "But how do you know that kind of information?" Though he found it weird, he didn't say so.

Shaking his head casually at the memory, a wistful smile formed. He said slowly, "Careful examination." He cast a wink in the other boy's direction.

Matthew didn't ask any other questions concerning the subject. He sighed. "…Why did you have to come and bother me?"

Gilbert was appalled. "B… Bother you?! How can this awesomeness be _bothersome_?!" He made a motion with his hands that referenced to his body. A scowl – almost a pout – was fixated delicately on his lips, thoroughly offended. The action was well-received.

Before the blonde could stop it, he smiled. He quickly let it fade. "Well, I mean –" He tried to rephrase his previous sentence so that it served to be less… offensive. "…Ah, why did you choose to grace me with your presence again?" Matthew learned quickly.

He smirked in response – one unlike his others, it was kind and expressed his fondness. "There you go, birdie. That's more like it." Leaning back in his hair, he placed the pencil over his nose and began to balance it, his eyes crossed to stare at it. "But class was boring, so I thought I might as well come visit… I know Mrs. Héderváry missed me." The pencil fell, and he lurched forward to catch it, but it missed his fingers. Gilbert was met with fuming green eyes from across the room.

"Yeah, I was talkin' 'bout you, honey," he called, slipping into the tone he used to flatter the girls. Again, he winked.

When he saw his teacher pick up the stapler, and pose as if to toss it, Matthew stuttered. "A-A-About the chapter, Mrs. Héderváry! Do we r-read all of it?" He held up the book – it was upside-down and flipped to the wrong page – to bring her away from anger and back into the present.

Elizaveta blinked, before coming to. She placed the object down, and seemed to forget all about her former student. "Oh…" She struggled for the other's name for a split second. "…Matthew. Yes, you do. You can go on if you'd like to."

The blonde smiled. "Thank you for clearing that up." This he had taken from Kiku Honda – the overly polite tone, and the modest twitch of his lips. He relaxed back into his seat, pretending to be blissfully reading.

Only when Mrs. Héderváry had fully returned to her task did Gilbert open his mouth, forming a wide circle of disbelief. He glanced frantically between the older teacher and the younger student. "Dude… birdie," he corrected himself. The nickname was so fluent to him – it flowed off of his tongue without him sparing a second thought. And he preferred it over anything else. Even simply 'Matthew' didn't seem comfortable. "…Thanks for having my back. When she gets a hold of something metal, I'm surprised World War Three doesn't start." He shuddered, shaking away unpleasant memories. "But what was that? That little spell you put on her?"

It took a moment for Matthew to catch his meaning, and when he did, he blushed. He looked away. "Ha, ha… that," he began nervously. "…My father calls it a 'cute card'." He flushed even harder, and sunk backward. "When I do things like that…" He didn't do it often – just to shut his brother up at times. Alfred would began talking at dinner, get on Arthur's nerves, and when it looked like his father was about to bust a vein, Matthew would cut in with a comment – accompanied with a charming smile and a tilt of his neck. He felt guilty, but it was the only way.

"A 'cute card'?" Gilbert echoed. He stared at the other. "Oh, those girlish features of yours, I see." He laughed, and it wasn't an expression of joy, it was one of amusement. He made a motion as if he was nudging the other. "Nice touch."

"Wh-What?" He was really confused. The more the elder talked, the less he understood.

He cocked his head in approval. "See, I use my total hotness to get girls, but I see you have the cuteness. That's different, but you use it well."

Matthew's mind was spinning, completely uncomprehending. But luckily, he didn't need to think about it anymore. The bell rang, dismissing them.

* * *

He fumbled with the object in his hands. It was so valuable… and it wasn't even his! He had to act with much more precaution than normal. Matthew focused, as he opened it, and stared.

"…It's just a cell phone," Gilbert said, a tone in his voice to show his confusion. Why was the other looking as if he had stumbled over a rare ruby?

"Oh." Matthew blushed. "S-Sorry, I just don't want to break it." But his real nervousness was stemming from why he held the phone. Gilbert, when they had reached the school's parking lot, had told him that that day would be a great day to come over – and cook those pancakes again. It was a school night. Matthew didn't know how to reject the offer, so the older had let him borrow his phone to inform his parents. He knew his parents would find it odd – he had never gone straight home, from school, to someone's house. He barely went to anyone's house, period. Matthew swallowed his anxiety and dialed his number, while Gilbert watched on with a smirk.

"Bonnefoy residence," said Francis, from over the line.

Matthew cleared his throat. "Daddy?"

"Cute card," Gilbert muttered. He was ignored.

"_Mathieu_," Francis cried. "What are you doing using a stranger's phone? Is everything alright?" His mind instantly flashed back to that rainy night weeks prior.

"_Oui_, _oui_," he assured. He glanced at Gilbert, who raised an eyebrow at the use of other language. "Yes, I, uh… I was going to head over to a friend's house. I… uh, promise I'll be back by dinner!" On his list, Matthew made a note to study smooth-talkers.

There was a pause, in which Francis pondered it over. He looked at the clock, and then pulled at the collar of his suit. He had a meeting to get to, anyway… and Arthur wouldn't come home for a few more hours… and Alfred had football, didn't he? He said, "Sure, sure. It doesn't make sense for you to be home alone, since everyone's busy." He knelt down, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder as he fixed his shoes. "Before dinner, alright?" He was weary, but he knew he could question about this sudden 'friend' when Matthew came back.

Grateful, Matthew nodded his head. Then he realized his father couldn't see him, which made Gilbert laugh. He said hurriedly, "Y-Yes, okay. Thank you! Bye." And he hung up. He continued to stare at the phone for a few more moments before handing it to the other.

Gilbert sighed, and slid his phone back into his back-pocket. He tried to keep his distaste hidden, but his lips pulled into a scowl despite himself. Luckily, it was a normal expression for him and the other didn't find anything wrong. "I didn't drive to school today… so we're going to have to walk." He nodded to himself, finding it perfectly acceptable. He was just glad that they wouldn't run into his father on the way there…

"Walking. Okay, that's fine," the blonde said, smiling faintly, and reassuringly. The other seemed so nervous, but he wasn't about to tread on dangerous grounds.

For some reason, Gilbert couldn't bare the silence. As they walked, he made sure to keep his steps constant and heavy. But before long, that wasn't enough. Minutes had passed – he knew they were halfway to his own home. "…So, don't you need to get your little 'accessories', or whatever?" He was referencing to the bowl, the evil spoon, and all of that other stuff.

"Utensils," Matthew corrected, somewhat sourly. The other's constant jibs at his girlish… attributes didn't cease to grate upon his nerves. Did he really look that girly? He didn't think so. He wore large hoodies to disguise whatever figure he had – and his jeans, he made sure, weren't flattering. "But no, like I said, most of the things I need are pretty common… you'd have them." Bluntly, he considered himself a professional on everything pancake-related, and it shone through his quiet voice.

"Things like what?" He made a face that showed how dubious he was.

Matthew began listing. "Ah, a big bowl."

"…Got that."

"A stirring spoon and milk?"

Gilbert licked his lips, tasting the defeat already settling on them. "…Yeah."

"Eggs, flour…"

"Yeah."

"Butter… syrup?"

He let out a laugh. He put his hands out, making his fingers mimic guns. "Butter, yes, syrup, no!" Mentally, he chided himself about doubting his awesomeness.

Matthew seemed absolutely horrified. He tried to keep it from showing, but it slipped. Pancakes… without syrup? Was there… such a thing? He imagined tasting them without the sugary accompany, but found it impossible. Thickly, he swallowed, and managed, "A-Ah, that's okay. I-I mean, they won't taste as good, but…"

"They'll still be awesome?" Gilbert supplied, relieving the stress from the other's shoulders.

"Yes. Yes, they will be!"

* * *

No. _No_. Maybe the pancakes themselves would be awesome, but waiting for them totally wasn't. Gilbert was near to ripping up the couch cushions in boredom. He was flipping through the television channels, but nothing was on; which figured, since life tended to hate him when he needed it the most. A vein, he knew, was about to pop in his neck. He had tried to visit his younger friend multiple times, but the other seemed to have developed a sixth sense that warned him whenever Gilbert was drawing near. Every time he'd step into his own kitchen, Matthew would turn around with mock fire in his eyes, and his spoon held high. Just the sight of the spoon made Gilbert walk away, innocently whistling.

It felt like he was on house arrest. And he didn't like it.

So he referred to the television again. He randomly flicked. Back and forth, back and forth, back and –

A half-choked noise came from the kitchen.

Only mildly interested, Gilbert turned his neck around. Matthew was standing there, bowl and spoon in hand, with licks of batter over his face and arms. He was facing the television, looking extremely conflicted and biting his bottom lip. "What?" Gilbert questioned, not liking the look. The television shouted out with some sort of commercial.

Matthew was torn between his etiquette, his loyalty, and his personal pride. He tried speaking, but his voice failed him.

"What?" Gilbert repeated, in a more stern tone. "Why do you look like a deer in headlights?"

Matthew admitted, "…That hockey game you passed…" Again, his voice died. And so did his courage. "N-Never mind, sorry." He turned back, placing the bowl on the counter and swirling the spoon around extra fast, willing the eyes boring into his head away.

The silverette chuckled a bit. "What was that gleam I caught in your eye, huh? You've got another addiction, this time, to hockey?" Amusement was evident. He didn't even try to disguise it in curiosity. And as he watched Matthew become flustered, he deemed it revenge for the house arrest.

He cleared his throat. "No, that was a repeat, only it was recapping some of the best moments. And that had been such a great game…" He let his musings continue in his head. It was much less embarrassing there.

Gilbert bargained, "…Say what. I'll let you watch that fancy hockey game if you hurry on the 'cakes. I'm hungry, here. My awesomeness needs to be fed. Now."

Matthew imitated him under his breath, but he couldn't help but smirk a bit and agree.

* * *

Gilbert was so close to screaming like the girl he wasn't and running. Completely running, with the arm-flailing and everything. Even though he remained cool on the exterior despite this, his mind feared for its owner's safety. He shuddered out a breath, before it all started again.

"Holy –! What kind of a play was that?! Come on, I know you can do better!"

Not even the pancakes – which were awesomer than awesome itself, not that he admitted it – soothed his mood. He just kept shoveling them into his mouth, stealing some from his rampaging guest when he ran out.

"Yes! Yes! Score, ha ha! I told you. I told you that you were better than that didn't I?! People should learn to listen to me!"

The commercials played, and he found it a safe time to converse. "Mattie…" Gilbert began, reluctantly. He dimly found that nickname to be suitable as well. He swallowed a forkful of pancake before continuing. "Didn't you say you've seen this one before?"

His face was extremely red, displaying his embarrassment. "Uh… well, yeah." He pulled at his collar, as if he could hide behind it.

"…And what was that dance you just did? A victory one?"

Matthew sunk back into the cushions. "…Sorry."

Gilbert laughed, his apprehension fading fast. "No, it's fine. It's actually kinda cute." He took another bite, this time, biting hard on the fork. What had that comment been for? Bleh.

A smile began to slowly form on Matthew's –

"…For a girl," he had to add. Gilbert dodged the flying cushion, and laughed.

* * *

"You're late."

It was the first thing to greet Matthew when he stepped into the house. He hadn't even dropped his schoolbag yet. Wearily, he did so, and pulled off his shoes and jacket. He crept around the corner to see his dysfunctional family gathered around their dinner table, with every set of eyes in his direction.

Alfred seemed ultimately amused – thinking that his brother had finally managed a girlfriend, and a_ secret_ one at that. He was proud. Maybe his twin was good at more than just blending into the walls.

Forever irritated, Arthur had a twitch in his brow. But that was normal, so Matthew couldn't tell if he was already on the Englishman's bad side.

Francis was the only one conveying sincere worry. He asked, "What took you so long?"

Matthew noticed that he had only been three minutes late. Only when he was in trouble, he knew, his parents and sibling bothered to waste brain cells on him. He didn't know what to feel. He coughed, trying to spare time. "…There was a hockey game on, you see…"

The other three expressed a simultaneous "Ah" noise of understanding, and Matthew took this as permission to sit down. As he picked up his fork and poked at his food – Arthur had cooked – he prayed that the conversation would shift from him to something more universal.

"So, Matt, what's 'er name?" Alfred asked with a waggle in his eyebrows. He nudged his brother with his elbow.

"Preposterous," Arthur mumbled.

Matthew looked to his father for a moment, before his attention was pulled back to his brother. A dust tinge of pink lit up his face. "I… uh, it's not –"

"A girl?!" Francis cried, smiling widely. "Oh, _Mathieu_, I am _extremely_ proud of you!"

"But I hadn't said –"

Arthur picked up on the conversation again. "He doesn't have a girlfriend."

"And why not, _mon cheri_?" Francis asked, turning bemused eyes to the other.

The Englishman said gruffly, "Too young. I won't allow it." He filled up his mouth with food, preventing anyone from asking him anything else.

"But, guys, it's not –"

"Score, Mattie! You went over to her house? Man, she must really like you."

With that, Matthew gave up, while his family talked about a love life that didn't exist. He became transparent, a pensive look to his face. The conversation had elicited a train of thought that he had never considered before: was his romantic life lacking? Did… did he need that special someone?

Alfred sure thought so. He was naming off many girls from their grade, willing his brother to tell him which one it was.

Matthew sipped on his drink – washing away the taste of indistinguishable meat – and simply mumbled, "So, politics."

And like that, the conversation was off again, and Matthew was able to focus on his woes.

* * *

**A/N**: Song for this chapter: **_No Rain_ by Blind Melon**. I think it fits best toward the end of the chapter. :)

…Sorry 'bout my absence. I started a new one-shot – _Close Up_ – that ended up being over eight thousand words. Sorry. But I'm done with it, so I can focus back on this. And this chapter wasn't even worth the wait. –sighs– I have to try harder. Oh, and I'm sorry for all of the sub-plot hints – I can't help myself. xD

Oh… and here's a question for you. Even though it's far away, do you think the ending should be happy, or sad? Because I have two endings in mind, one happy, and the other angst-filled. And I want to see what you think. I can't make up my mind, honestly…

Well, until next time~! (Which hopefully won't be as long?)

**Preview for next chapter**:

_He couldn't escape. It was horrifying, just the thought of it. And he knew exactly how he could manage to free himself – one of two ways. The truth or a thread of lies. Neither seemed appetizing._


	5. Use Somebody

He couldn't escape. It was horrifying, just the thought of it. And he knew exactly how he could manage to free himself – one of two ways. The truth or a thread of lies. Neither seemed appetizing. It surrounded him, and Matthew felt ill at ease.

"But who is she who is she who is she whoisshe!" Alfred was whining, stomping his feet, his arms outstretched to block the door, which was the only exit. "I'm not letting you go until you tell me," he added once again, pouting and looking much violated. "Don't… don't you trust me, brother?" His voice wavered and quivered, like a child who wasn't let in on a secret. He let his fingers tap nervously against the doorway. "Mattie… tell me tell me tell me!"

A headache crawled across Matthew's scalp, and bored its way into his mind. Scowling firmly, he glared daggers up at the elder. He didn't want to lie – he was terrible at it – but his annoyance was growing so overwhelming that the only way to relieve it was to explain. But the question was… could he trust his brother? Honestly? Matthew wouldn't put it past the other to spill his secret without even knowing. Was it worth it? He cleared his throat. "Alfred…" He looked up – his eyes soft with weariness. "Can you keep a secret?"

With an excited expression, Alfred nodded wildly. The thought that his brother was going to tell him made him smile. "Yes! Yes, I can! Like, I've never told anyone how Dad gets drunk and starts singing old English tunes in a sorrowful tune~! I've never told anyone that!" It took him a good half-minute to realize what he'd done. "…Oh… What I meant was that I can keep secrets. Except for that one." He winced.

That answered Matthew's question. He exhaled a loud groan, and ran his tired fingers through his hair. "Gosh, Al. Why bother me to tell you if you know you're not trustworthy? It's pointless…" He didn't even know why he bothered explaining it to him – he knew, by the gleam in the other's eyes, that he couldn't be trusted. But Alfred didn't hold other people's secrets as close to his heart as he did his own.

"'Cause I wanna know! It's only fair, since I'm your brother; your _older_ brother!"

"That doesn't change anything," Matthew said, irritably. He rose onto his feet, to try to push his brother away. It was like pressing against a wall. He shook as the other laughed deeply.

Alfred's chuckles faded into words. "Yes it does! As your older brother, I have to know everything, so I can protect you from everything~!"

Matthew realized that the other wasn't giving up. It made his spirits sink. "…Fine," he allowed, moving away, and adverting his gaze to elsewhere. The carpet flooring was pretty interesting… it showed every stain and tear from their combined teenage years. The multiple sodas and the one coffee Alfred had spilled, along with the few drops of syrup that had fallen when Matthew tried to sneak in a late-night snack. He allowed himself a sigh. "…I just went over to a friend's house, and that's it. Not a girl's house, either."

He found authenticity radiating from the shorter's eyes. And to Alfred, this was disappointing. No… secret girlfriend? No quick make-out sessions hidden from their parents? No… soul-mates-that-were-oppressed-by-society-and-would-stay-together-if-they-wanted-to-darn-it? His lips turned downward, and he let his throbbing arms fall. But he didn't let his letdown show. "You always were the boring one, Mattie," he said, as an off-hand comment, over his shoulder when he walked from their shared room. But then something sparked in his mind: it was one of his – very rare – strokes of actual genius. His eyes lit up, and he turned back to his brother before the younger could leave. "But when did you get friends?! Oh my gosh, you're hiding someone!" Quickly, for discretion, he fully walked in and slammed the door behind himself. He locked it, and the 'click' unknowingly made Matthew's heart skip. "Ha ha, Mattie, spill!" His hands made excited movements. "Let me think… he's a terrorist that you're hiding… or, or, he's an axe-murderer that's keeping you hostage like a dog, but lets you walk around free 'cause you're a loyal pansy! Or… or maybe…"

Matthew's hands slapped repeatedly against Alfred's chest. It silenced him, but didn't affect him much other than that. His face was flushed against the accusation. Though he honestly had no idea about his friend's identity, or his past, he knew it could be nothing terrible like what Alfred was depicting. He refused to believe it as so. "No! He's nothing like that," he defended, stepping back again. Though Gilbert did seem shady… Matthew shook his head to scatter his own thoughts. If he started doubting the new relationship that had formed, it would only break. Suspicion killed the cat… or something like that.

"Then what is he like?! Is he one of your nerd friends, one who is all shy and quiet like you? Oh! I know. It's that Kiku kid you were talking about the other night isn't it?" Alfred nodded a few times in a self-satisfied manner. "Yep, I thought so. He's pretty cool; I've seen him around…" A flash of recognition splashed the color in his eyes. He bent lower, easing his tone into one that was extremely confidential. "…But that kid he hangs around with, do you know anything 'bout him? 'Cause I think they're dating, but I'm not sure…"

"H-Heracles?!" Matthew said, in a high voice that resembled a hiccup. Though he was grateful that the conversation had shifted from his personal affairs, he still didn't feel comfortable talking about someone else's; especially someone as nice and reserved as Kiku Honda. He felt dirty and traitorous. "I honestly have no idea what you're talking about…"

Alfred seemed more than happy to explain. "Well, I dunno, but Kiku always has this smitten look on his face when he's around Heracles…" He placed his finger to his chin for effect. The blue-eyed wonder had always enjoyed playing match-maker for his friends and classmates, even though he hadn't managed to find anyone for himself. He didn't mind – he'd rarely thought about it – and he thoroughly believed that if he was able to make others happy, he could finally be happy as well. It was also the reason he had nearly jumped for joy at the prospect of his brother having a girlfriend. "Oh! And you know how Heracles is always falling asleep? Like, all the time? Well, he's wide-awake around Kiku~! …Maybe I should talk to them about it…"

Matthew knew a potential disaster when he saw one. He hastily shook his hands and said, "N-No, Al, don't talk to them. It's such a sensitive subject, don't you think you should avoid it, and let it play out?" He wanted off of the subject, as soon as possible. The door was still locked, and he couldn't get to it without his brother seeing.

With his grin fading into a pout, Alfred whined, "But they love each other! Shouldn't they get their happy ending?"

His face flushed even deeper at the mention of 'love'. "Alfred, please." His shoulders fell, and he sighed. The message he was conveying – what it was was beyond him – seemed to wear on the other's dignity. Not wanting anything bad to come of it, he also added, "It's… nice that you care so much about them, but they might not want to take quite a big step at the moment. They might just like staying friends, and there is nothing wrong with that. They'll move on when they move on…" Being on such a deep, tentative subject was severely mellowing Matthew's mood.

Alfred scrunched up his nose, making the rims of his glasses rub against his cheeks. His impatience was evident in the twist of his lips. "But… they need their happy ending…" he mumbled, for lack of other, more intelligent, things to articulate.

"Yes, and they'll get it when the time comes," Matthew finalized. "Now if you'll excuse me…." He turned his brother around by the shoulders – when Alfred's emotions were dim, so was his resistance. With yet another click, Matthew unlocked the door, and gave Alfred a friendly smile before pushing him out. He knew it was unfair – the room was both of theirs, after all – but the other's pestering questions and embarrassing musings had managed to scramble Matthew's brain. He wasn't quite sure what they had been talking about in the first place, but he did know that he just might have to keep Kiku and Heracles from Alfred – at all costs.

* * *

The third time Gilbert came prancing into Mrs. Héderváry's last period class; it wasn't a cocksure grin that was on his lips. It was an annoyed scowl, accompanied with clenched fists and a biting tongue. There was no sympathy in his eyes for the ones he snapped at on the way there: only full-blown anger. His red eyes were heated with fury, and when he stomped into the room, he walked straight toward Kiku's seat.

Kiku, with the elegance and patience of a swan, rose from his seat with his things into his arms. Only a lick of fear registered on his face as he sat down at the table in the back of the room. His books and writing interments hitting on the wood was the single sound heard. It unnerved him.

Gilbert heavily sat down, crossing his arms, and daring anyone to say a word. He kept his teeth clenched against screaming, and his eyes bore into the board with such rage that it was surprisingly that the board itself didn't begin melting.

With his over-cautious and utterly timid nature, Matthew wasn't about to break that silence with his own words, despite how much he wanted to. He even had a faint feeling in his heart that if he spoke, Gilbert might just listen – that his words just might just matter. But such nonsense was ignored.

After the clouds from the storm had cleared, the class went back to work – their reading, as normal. Elizaveta was extremely busy during most days, and reading the books she had chosen satisfied their curriculum. Besides, she was reading as well – even if it wasn't quite the same material, the idea was the same.

Silence was heavy to Matthew. There was a tug in him that wanted him to fix Gilbert's problem, since there so obviously was one – but doubts were more evident. Maybe they weren't on the level of friendship yet that entailed explaining personal dilemmas? But when he glanced over, and unintentionally caught the other's eye, his resolve settled like dust. He said in a low exhale of breath, "What happened?"

Gilbert refused to respond coherently. He vaguely mumbled, "Fucking idiot… doesn't know anything… hell, I'm more awesome than him, even with everything that's happened… fucking idiot…" His eyes cooled, and his breathing calmed considerably. He huffed, and turned to look at the blonde – to give a full description – but something else caught his eye. He sputtered even more unintelligibly than before, and he suddenly sat erect in his seat. Without warning, he stood, and dashed toward the window to Matthew's left. He fumbled with the latch. "Lizzie," he complained, shaking it a bit, "it won't open. Help me here!"

Elizaveta, put off by the nickname and the disruption, gave him an un-amused look. "Gilbert, get back into your seat. Just because you're here after being kicked out of your first class doesn't mean you can't get kicked out from here."

Ultimately worried for the other's well-being and sanity, Matthew pulled at the edge of Gilbert's shirt. The material was rough, and disliked by his fingers. But he tugged again. "Gil," he hissed, keeping his voice down, as Mrs. Héderváry's green eyes were trained onto him. "What are you doing?!"

Gilbert turned on him as if he was crazy. "I need to get out there!" A faint hue of red on his cheeks obscured his normally pale features. His eyes darted agitatedly back toward the window. He went to say something else, but he had an idea at the same time. On impulse, he acted upon the idea. Turning around, he managed to use a trick he had learned when he was younger to unlatch the stubborn window. He pushed it open wide, and gave a shout of, "Hold on, birdie, the awesomeness is coming!" Then, he was gone, having jumped from the window.

Elizaveta, with a sour look that showed that she had experienced the occurrence way too often, said, "I'm getting a classroom on the second floor next year, maybe that'll stop him from jumping from windows…" She stood, fully intending to take the stapler again and knock some sense into her former student.

Ever so shocked by the sudden turn of events, Matthew sat, staring, with his hand still held as if he was pulling on the other's shirt.

After moments of silence – the class was shaken as well – Gilbert came walking back toward the window, his arms occupied. The one free hand he had tapped on the window, and motioned for someone to assist him.

Being closest to it, Matthew hesitantly rose and stood next to the window. What he saw nearly blew his mind. Instead of the clearly angered expression, roaring eyes and tight frame that had walked into the classroom, Gilbert was softened. His hair carried the remnants of the slight breeze, and his eyes were smiling and gleaming against the sun. No more did he show anger – but a fond passion and utter happiness. The shift was so surreal, that Matthew needed to know what had caused it. He reached out, intending to grip the other's hand, but Gilbert handed him a little yellow fluff ball. Matthew's first instinct was to drop it when it fluttered between his fingers, but he held tight, and his face showed his uncertainty.

Gilbert hoisted himself up easily – his muscles weren't just for show – and set his feet firmly to the tile floor before smiling in a confident manner. Overly proud and comfortable, he looked toward Matthew, and found the younger's flustered expression endearing. He laughed, before taking the bird back, and holding it up to his own eye-level. He explained, "I saw the poor little guy fall from his nest… he doesn't even know how to fly yet." As he looked closer, he couldn't even be sure of the type of bird, let alone the gender.

With sparkling eyes, Elizaveta watched for Matthew's reaction.

Matthew blinked a few times, his heart fluttering like the bird's useless wings at the scare of it all. He took in Gilbert's expression, his careful movements – everything, before speaking. "Is he okay?" He reached out cautiously to rub the fluff-ball on its back, and smiled when it twittered in response.

After looking over, Gilbert nodded and affirmed, "Think so. Didn't hit hard. But he didn't have any siblings in his nest…" Uncharacteristically thoughtful, he realized what he would have to do, and it didn't appall him at all. He didn't speak his thoughts, but just walked back to his desk, where he let the bird play on the wood surface.

Mrs. Elizaveta Héderváry felt a smile distort her lips. She had been the only one to have witnessed the Prussian's softer side, until Matthew had come along. And the thought didn't bother her a bit.

* * *

"…Are you sure that's healthy? Or even… safe?" Matthew couldn't help but be a bit weary – for the actions the other had undertook startled him. Housing a bird on your head? It was odd, but strangely like Gilbert.

"Yep," Gilbert allowed, petting the bird that was nuzzled into his hair. "He probably doesn't even know that it's not his nest. And it's a portable nest, too, so he can stay with me." The idea seemed perfect to him.

The commotion of the hallways continued around him. The blonde noticed something extremely unfamiliar in the other's eyes… He smiled, his worries cast away so that amusement could replace them. "Hey, Gilbert, you make fun of me for liking pancakes and hockey… and yet you…"

Gilbert paled. "Don't you dare!" he threatened, glaring down at the other. He knew what was coming, and he wouldn't allow it, for his awesomeness was at stake. The flush from earlier was painted across his face again.

Matthew took the chance. "And yet you have a soft spot for birds… or is it cute things?"

The blush just increased, no matter how unawesome it was. "…Might be cute things, since I still keep you around…" he said quietly to the younger, while petting the bird on his head with his other hand.

While Gilbert assumed himself to think of proper names for the bird, Matthew deadpanned, unsure whether to be flattered or insulted at the comment. He was flattered that the elder admitted to liking having him around, and to thinking him as cute. But something was off about the statement, making him slightly concerned. He moved to say something, though before he could, Gilbert cried out.

"Gilbird! Yes, that's it – that's what I'll call you. That's completely awesome!" He laughed loudly, proud at his own success. Gilbert lifted Gilbird from his head, to hold it cradled between his cupped hands. He danced around a bit, the yellow bird tweeting happily in approval at its name.

Matthew couldn't suppress a laugh either, and his worries about his role in the other's life demised to a fleeting thought. He said, "Naming him after you? Isn't that a bit –"

"Awesome," Gilbert supplied firmly. "And no, it's not just a little bit awesome, it's completely awesome." He put Gilbird back on his head, getting used to the frail weight and smirking. "I saved him, so he should be named after me." The reason was solid, there was no debate. He turned to his companion. "We should be gettin' home now; we have been standing here for a while." He motioned to the empty hallway.

Matthew's face blossomed in embarrassment – for being caught so unaware, for not paying attention in the first place – and he quickly said, "My parents weren't so happy about me being so late yesterday, either, so I don't want to do it twice…" He quickly adjusted his book-bag, and began hurrying toward the school's entrance.

At his heels, Gilbert said with a slight twinge to his voice, "Why were they upset? I know I sent you home on time. At least, in time for you to get home on time…"

"It's… their thing. To be strict." He didn't want to get onto that subject, for it would probably lead to recalling the discussion his parents had had about his love life… and his brother's thoughts…

Gilbert scoffed, not saying anything, and defiantly not putting in his own opinion about the other's parents.

* * *

**A/N**: I'm realizing that the first scenes in all of my chapters are over a thousand words… it's odd. –shrugs–

And as for this first scene: I see Alfred as the type who really observes people's feelings and relationships. But he can't tell when to avoid certain subjects. (He can't read the atmosphere…) And then Matthew looks more at what makes people special: how they talk, how they walk, the different traits, quirks, or habits that make everyone different; and since he wants to fit in, he ends up studying and effectively copying much of what he sees.

Yes, I added a flair of Greece/Japan. Hope you don't mind. ^^U

Ehehehe, this chapter… was kind of well-written, I think, but still pointless. Fortunately, the action is starting next chapter, even if briefly… I really want to start the action next, 'cause it's killing me. -.-" We'll see what happens… I think I might have to do one of those hated-time-line-things. When you see it, you'll know what I'm talking about… –sighs– Oh, but it might be short, too, so it has more effect, and I might finish it tonight. :) It's going to be a lot different than the others, warning, it's going to be so cryptic that it'll blow your mind...

If the next chapter seems rushed, it has to be.

Brownie points for anyone who can figure out what Elizaveta was reading on her computer that was oh-so-important~! ;D

Oh… and another little thing. My friend suggested that I could make a sort of FST thing for this fic after I was done… I told her that it was a stupid idea, but she wanted me to see what you guys thought. An FST is a playlist of songs, usually for a character/show/pairing. And I could put the songs I use for each chapter, and put them in order onto an FST… I'd have to learn how, of course, and I couldn't make any art for it (-fails-), but I dunno. And I wouldn't post it until I was done with the story, but it would be a little thing for the people who like this to remember it. ^^U I dunno…

Song for this chapter: _**Use Somebody**_** by Kings of Leon**. I think it fits by showing how at this moment, they both have their faults and differences, but they could really use each other to help them get along in the world…

**Preview for next chapter**:

_It stole his dreams, and it captured his nightmares. It used flashbacks to remind him of what he couldn't possibly escape of: what he barely wanted to escape from. Never before had he thought that something like this would… sneak up on him._


	6. If Only You Knew

It took seven, maybe eight months of secret weekend meetings, last periods and school night visits for it all to finally explode – but explosions weren't always bad. But no matter how Matthew looked at it, he couldn't bring anything positive forth except for that warm feeling in his heart. It suffocated him and tortured his thoughts. He didn't know how people had lived through it before, or had managed to give it such a sugary-sweet name. He could barely stomach most of the time, let alone fantasize or relish in it. He wanted it gone – he had lived so long without it; why wouldn't it leave?

It stole his dreams, and it captured his nightmares. It used flashbacks to remind him of what he couldn't possibly escape of: what he barely wanted to escape from. Never before had he thought that something like this would… sneak up on him. It had taken over him so suddenly, he had never seen it coming – he hadn't even been looking for it. Just a moment of brief contact, and his whole sense of sanity shattered to shards of reality at his feet. The glass cut his fingers, and the blood that spilled was so agonizingly red that it made him smile.

His screams were muffled against his unforgiving pillow, and the darkness rubbed soothing circles against his skin. Matthew could feel tears, he could feel them like a second skin – they were so uncomfortably comfortable to his character that he let them free. He let them spill. This had gone on for too long, he knew it had to stop… it bothered him when his own self-pity attracted attention from his family.

The light flickered on, and his brother was by his side, shaking him desperately, with his eyes stretched in fear. "Matthew, Matthew!" Alfred's image of his brother was blurred without his glasses, but he could still see the saltwater glistening against the other's fair skin. Alfred's breathing was hitched and uneven. Despite the fact that these late-night interruptions had been happening for so long, he couldn't help but feel so sorry, so helpless, and so un-heroic that he couldn't save his brother from himself. Never before had Matthew been so restless… before it had been a few unconscious wails, not these tears…

Arthur pulled open the door, in a panic, when he heard his oldest son shouting, but realized that the problem wasn't with Alfred, but Matthew. This brought a fresh layer of worry to his mind, and he hurried into the room with his loose bathrobe billowing around him. "What's wrong with him?!" His question was answered when two wet, purple eyes snapped open, and their gaze inadvertently fixed on him.

Matthew's breath came in a sharp, shuddering gasp, and he caught onto consciousness. His eyes burned, his throat ached, and he felt like crying against the pain in his body – but then he saw that he already had tears dripping from his chin. Vulnerably, he looked around, and caught blue eyes. He clung to them as if they were the only things left. "What happened? What am I…?" His skin became aware of silky sheets, which were slightly moist in his own sweat. His mind was too groggy to put anything together.

With a silent sigh of relief, Alfred explained, "I think it was another nightmare of yours…" His eyebrows pushed together in concern, in confusion. Lightly, he brushed away stray hairs from his brother's vision. "This one seemed much worse than the last few… do you have any idea what this one was about though?" Never before had Matthew remembered his nightmare, nor the cause – and hope was evident in Alfred's voice.

A ghost of recognition passed over Matthew before it faded. "I just… no. Not really. Just blood… and I couldn't breathe… I…" He winced, as if attempting to recall inflicted physical pain.

Arthur heaved a heavy breath, and told him, "It doesn't really matter what it was about. Just… try to calm down, and get to sleep soon, okay?" Not the nicest approach to something so dire, but he was tired, and he knew the boys must be as well. He knelt down twice – to press a kiss to each of their foreheads – before turning to leave. If anything bad had actually happened, he had a slight faith in Alfred to protect the younger, despite what he often said about him. But it irked him how useless he was – he, the father! – in such situations. He was never good to comfort, or to dampen someone's pain. That had always been Francis' job when the boys were younger. Arthur rubbed his eyes with a weary fist, and mumbled, "Idiot Francis… sleeps like a rock, the idiot…"

Alfred saw the guilt in the other's eyes and said, "Don't be sorry. It's not your fault. Nightmares creep up on the best of us."

"But… not so often… and they're not supposed to wake _everyone_ up…"

Humor was what Alfred resorted to in such situations. It had always been default for him. "Hey, Dad didn't wake up." He smiled, hoping it to be contagious and spread to the other's face as well. Unfortunately, he wasn't so lucky.

A frown was still fixed to Matthew's lips. "But I…"

"Just go back to sleep. We've got school tomorrow, remember?" He glanced at the clock, squinted to make out the numbers, and then couldn't stop a frown from invading his face, either. "…Er, well, school today, I mean…" It was three minutes after four in the morning. He pressed his lips together in a failed attempt to remain positive for the other's benefit.

"I'm sorry," Matthew said, closing his eyes tightly, and pressing his hands to his forehead. "I'm so sorry…" Conflicted in mind and body, he tried his best not to start crying again.

Alfred soothed, "No, no, heroes don't need sleep, anyway." He climbed under his own covers, and yawned. "We should be awake at all times… to save those in need… and make sure that no one… gets into any… trouble…" By the time his eyes closed and his head hit the pillow, he was in a slumber that Matthew envied.

With a sniffle, Matthew blinked a few times and tried again to pinpoint the reason that he kept having these nightmares. Nothing significant formed in his mind, and that only caused him more distress. He felt like screaming – or crying again – but he knew that sleep should be the only thing on his mind. He didn't have long, anyway. So he closed his eyes, knowing full-well what he was diving into.

* * *

Matthew wasn't alone in his early morning awakening.

Gilbert lay there, with his eyes fully open and irritation evident. He felt like strangling his pillows. Like ripping the curtains down in anger, or hiding under his blankets in destitution. But he did nothing. His senses were numb, and the dark ceiling was the only thing registering in his mind: darkness, darkness, darkness. He couldn't sleep.

All at once, movement was granted to him again. He sat up quickly – with a roar of displeasure – and tossed a pillow across the room, and then the other one shortly after. The movement sent pain riding down his body, and he hissed, retracting the arm back to his side. Gilbert couldn't believe how much it hurt, after one single punch to it. He wasn't a weakling! He refused to believe it. The blankets rested at his midsection, giving warmth and comfort to his legs but leaving everything else bare. Suddenly, he felt like flailing aimlessly, just to get out all of his frustration, and to stop the tears of _weakness_ that began to prick his eyelashes. Breathing heavily, and wishing ill-fortune on everything on the room, Gilbert just sat there, trying to keep his shoulders from slumping – they hurt too. They had gotten the worst of the inflictions, he couldn't blame them, but pain was weak. Pain was weak, tears were weak, everything. Weak. Weakness wasn't awesome. He couldn't bring himself to move, or escape the fact that every single breath that puffed from his lips created a growing discomfort in his chest.

He should have seen it coming. It hit him so hard – literally – and he blamed himself for not looking for it in the first place. If he knew it was going to happen, he could have prepared. Though there was much he could have done to prepare himself – it would have happened eventually – it would have made all the pain, all of the weakness feel slightly more… deserved. That was it.

He deserved it all. All of it. Every single touch, swipe, and smile – he deserved every lick of it.

Gilbert knew how guilty he was… and he knew the one thing he could do to ease all of this guilt. He could get rid of his guilt, and he could… Suddenly, the darkness didn't seem as dim as his mind erupted into a vividly bright plan that would ultimately solve every problem. It would get him away from his guilt, from his pain, and it would give pain to those who had crossed his father: Arthur would suffer, Francis would suffer…

But when he thought about it, Matthew would suffer as well. He'd probably suffer the most…

…but not if he went willingly.

Willingly. Willingly was the key word. The thing that changed everything. His mind twisted and mangled, turned in upon itself – he knew how he could fit willingly into the formula. And, the more his mind thought and formed, the more his heart shriveled and cried. Gilbert had the most pain in his heart, but it had to be done – if he was going to be happy, he needed this pain to work.

And then a thought fell into the stream.

Could he be happy… with Matthew suffering, by his side, knowing that he had caused it?

The answer was no. No, he couldn't, because no matter how hard Gilbert tried to convince himself otherwise, the little blonde boy had slipped into his heart, in more ways than one.

And the realization hit him so hard that he nearly doubled over.

How could anything work, now that he had a soft spot for Matthew?!

How…

…But if he shut off his heart, he knew he might just manage… if he played the role of what he was; he could just make it… His lips pressed together, trying to figure out a way to make Matthew happy, keep him happy, but make misfortune fall onto all of the ones that deserved it as well. If…

Wait.

That could just work.

Matthew could stay happy and naïve, he could stay happy, while the others drowned in confusion and helplessness. And he had the perfect way to lure Matthew willingly into the plan… there was a high chance of failure, but he needed success – it was all he needed!

With his thoughts at war with his reasoning, and his reasoning battling his heart, Gilbert lay awake, and the clock flashed four-oh-three in the morning.

* * *

**A/N**: Song for this [short] chapter: _**If Only You Knew**_** by Shinedown**. If you look at the lyrics to it, it spoils a few things… so don't. xD

Gilbert may seem evil/calculating/heartless in this. But he's not supposed to be. And his 'plan'? …That's the action that spurred the story in the first place. It'll come… I think, in two more chapters. :D And then Feliks and Toris will be introduced, and then Germany and Italy~! Yay, it's getting more interesting.

Don't ask why Matthew is having the nightmares – I could tell you, but I won't…

And I'm posting this just 'cause I'm going to start this one-shot, and it might be a long one (it's PruCan) but still. :x I don't know how long it'll be 'til I update next... ^^U

**Preview for next chapter**:

_Kiku stared imploringly into the other's eyes, wincing mentally at what he saw. He leaned back, chewing on his food, and thinking. When he finished, he said, "But you look tired. Are you staying up late?" The question was vague enough to not step on any toes._


	7. Her Diamonds

The shadows under his eyes were hard to cover the next day. And Matthew attempted to hide his multiple yawns, but they kept slipping. He still managed to pay attention in class, finish his work and his quizzes without fail, but he felt like garbage. Lack of sleep took out so much. Days before, weeks before, he had only a few days like these: but none of them were so unfamiliar or so hell-like. Before, it was just a yawn, and going to bed early because of his episodes – but today, he knew, he might not be able to finish his homework when he went home. He felt like collapsing, and unfortunately, everyone seemed to notice.

"Matthew-san?" Kiku asked, quiet and peaceful, like a spring's breeze. During lunch, Matthew hadn't been his usual self. He was silent. Although the other wasn't the most talkative, he always supplied idle conversation. Kiku was missing the exchange. "If you don't mind me asking, is something bothering you?"

With his back arched tiredly, Matthew kept his eyes on his plate. He almost gave an uncommitted grunt, but he knew that wouldn't help his case in the least bit. Managing to raise his head a little bit, he said, "Oh, Kiku, don't worry." He put on a smile, and pulled it firm enough to prevent the yawn rising in his throat. "I'm okay."

Kiku stared imploringly into the other's eyes, wincing mentally at what he saw. He leaned back, chewing on his food, and thinking. When he finished, he said, "But you look tired. Are you staying up late?" The question was vague enough to not step on any toes.

"Ah, yes," Matthew quickly responded, nodding his head. When chance was given to him, he always made sure that it didn't slip away. "I've been studying until the early morning." He actually smiled that time, hating how easy the lie managed to create itself.

Fully aware that there were no major tests, quizzes or projects coming up, Kiku raised a red flag in his mind. But he couldn't put down his own boundaries to question his friend. He knew that if he asked questions, questions would be asked of him. Slowly, he wetted his lips with quick tongue. "That is very studious of you, Matthew-san," he complimented, covering his observations with flattery and a smile.

"Thank you," Matthew said, and was interrupted when someone else heavily sat next to the other.

Heracles grumbled and bent over so that his cheek was pressed against the tabletop. "My math teacher doesn't understand that no matter how exciting he makes the material, I'm not going to pay any more attention." He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, replaying memories against his eyelids. "You should have seen him. He was singing everything, just in an attempt to wake us up…"

His attention shifted to the new arrival. "Maybe you should take his attempts into consideration and actually show some enthusiasm. He seems to really want to make his class easier," Kiku advised.

Reaching out toward Kiku's plate, Heracles robbed him of a French fry, and absently chewed on it as he replied. "The class is easy, I'm passing, but it's just so boring to sit through."

"He wants to make it easier to sit through," Kiku clarified.

"When he's singing so terribly it's hard not to just start banging your head against the desk," said Heracles, grudgingly, as he took another fry.

Matthew mulled over the exchange silently. Instead of his usually distant and layered comments, Kiku was giving the other actual suggestions and tips, really wanting to help. He wasn't being the shoulder-to-cry-on that Matthew was used to. And as for Heracles… who knew that he had creamy brown eyes? Certainly not Matthew. And the expression the Greek wore, of course, was lined with misplaced fatigue, but there was actually amusement buried, and a soft tone in his voice that said that he knew more than he let on… Fiddling absently with his empty lunch plate, he caught a glance at the clock. "Man," he said quietly, unintentionally interrupting the others' conversation. "I have only two minutes to get to class…" He stared numbly at the clock as the seconds ticked away. He didn't feel like going to class, since he had the distinct feeling in his gut that Gilbert was going be there. Why he knew that, and why he didn't want to see him wasn't something he understood, but it was sure something he felt.

After a surprised gasp that was muffled behind his hand, Kiku stood. He grasp his half-full plate, as if intending to throw it out, when Heracles stopped him with a mumbled explaining his hunger. Kiku's smile was brief as he put it in front of the other. "I lost track of time, I am sorry for not warning you earlier, Matthew-san," he apologized, bowing once. He clapped his hands together, as if cleaning them, despite the fact that they had been completely clean. He looked between his friends.

Heracles made a non-committed noise. "Eh, fine, go to class." Seeming disappointed, he added, "I'll wait for you afterwards, I guess..." He looked prepared to spend the rest of the day, sitting there loosely draped across the table, like an abandoned article of clothing. Lazily, he pulled another French fry from the plate.

Kiku seemed rather reluctant to leave after that, and even when he did manage to keep walking, he made a few glances over his shoulder until the cafeteria's doors were only distant images.

While Kiku was preoccupied, Matthew was able to let his mask slip a bit. He furiously rubbed at his eyes, which irritated them, and only bothered him further. The fatigue was echoing through his mind, repeatedly, like an alarm, like it was warning him of something. It pulled at his top eyelids, making them droop, it clung to his shoulders, weighing them down just like his book-bag – but his mind got the worst of the abuse. The more the fatigue was preset, the more the mystery of his nightmares was tangible. If he could only forget about it… but the more he trudged on, through the filled hallways, the more it seemed impossible. He was looking forward to collapsing when he got home.

"…At least we only have two more class until the end of the day," Kiku mused. Though it barely soothed his own worries, so he didn't expect it to help his more silent counterpart, either. Matthew seemed to be in one of his lowest moods, and Kiku had no idea why, or how to go about diagnosing it. Matthew had quite the mask on…

Matthew was about to dignify the other with a response – the other did deserve it, after all of the silence Matthew had been dishing out – but Kiku's hand was suddenly tight and restricting on his lower arm. It was squeezed so tightly, displaying the hold's urgency and it halted the blonde's steps. Matthew's breath halted, and he turned to send a confused look to Kiku – and he saw Kiku with his jaw set, and his eyes flashing suddenly, despite their pebble appearance.

"Don't walk any farther," Kiku said, and he didn't have to wait for explanation, because his evidence played itself before them like theatre.

The group of students before them instantly became a mob, surrounding two furious-looking boys who looked like they were about to rip each other's throats out. Drinking this in, the other people began chanting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Not wanting to disappoint, the fists flew and the feet struck skin, over and over again, neither of them getting anywhere, or advancing upon the other.

Kiku skillfully lead himself and Matthew away from the scene – it could only cause trouble later.

* * *

Of course, Matthew was able to walk home with Gilbert again. But for some reason an eerie blanket of silence had cascaded itself upon them, creating a slightly uncomfortable atmosphere. Matthew pleaded with himself to create something smart to say or some string of words that they could create together. But nothing reached his ears but the soft padding of their combined footsteps. The wind created stories, the leaves of tired trees contributed – but no one was listening to them.

With his mind rolling, Matthew looked up toward Gilbert as they walked side-by-side, intending to say the first thing that would fall from his lips. But the words died on his tongue. Across Gilbert's neck, from the bottom of his ear and most likely stretching down and onto his shoulder was a purple bruise. Something clicked in Matthew's head, and he actually stopped walking to question, "What happened to your neck?"

In a defensive and automatic gesture, Gilbert's hand rose to cover the offending mark. He returned with, "What are you talking about?" He twisted his neck a bit, feeling how the tender skin shot beads of pain throughout his nerves. His lips jerked into a scowl of displeasure, and he tried to hide it. But he failed, as Matthew took his wrist.

"And this red mark!" He traced his fingers across the line. "Did you get scratched? It looked like it was bleeding…" The gash was a deep and dark red, indicating its severity. It seemed to be caused by human nails, so the excuse of an animal attack wouldn't fit. He ignored the feeling of bliss erupting throughout his body at the contact. When Gilbert kept walking, he determinedly albeit gently pulled him back. "Did something happen?" He stared inquisitively at him, his purple eyes reflecting and soothing.

Gilbert was reluctant. He tried to pull his hand back – it was burning – but the younger wasn't giving in. It continued to flare, raw and hot, as Gilbert answered, "Neighbor's dog. Real feisty thing. Annoying, too."

Disappointment flashed in Matthew's eyes, something soft that the other didn't catch. He let the hand go, and bit upon his bottom lip. "Really?" he asked, keeping his voice low and steady, so that nothing uncensored would slide through. "But dogs don't really scratch. They bite."

"…Did I say dog? I meant cat."

"But a cat's claws are so thin, and they would probably make more scratches then this, and –"

Growling, Gilbert snapped, "Since when did you become a damn expert, huh?!" Fury, undaunted, raged within his eyes and mind, blurring everything together. His affections and his emotions blended into something undesirable. "What does it matter? It could have been a fucking weasel, damn it, and it wouldn't have made a difference!"

Matthew's hands stilled at his sides, instead of letting the wind play with them. "B-But…" He tried with his burning conscious killing his timidity. "What was it? I-I-If it wasn't an animal, _who_ was it?" Without a smile, his mouth was left unprotected and twisted into a frown. His lips quivered. And then, a thought came to him as unpredicted as the lightening that suddenly split the sky. Thunder rolled, and the sky opened to spill rain onto the road. His dad had told him, "_Bring an umbrella – it's going to rain_" but he hadn't listened. Even if he had, he wouldn't have been able to move to pull it from his bag, since his body and his whole being was trained onto Gilbert's eyes. "Were you the one that got into a fight earlier today?!"

Silence fell, and the thunder interrupted it, not caring about the moment the students were wrapped in. Gilbert pondered, and he realized that he could just possibly begin his plan there… it would be premature, and extremely sudden, even for him. But… when else would get such a perfect chance? He clouded his eyes over, and truthfully answered, "No. That wasn't me, Mattie. I don't know what you're talking about." It had actually been his friend, and he had gotten the full details afterward… it had been pretty awesome, really. But that wasn't the issue at hand.

Matthew felt the symbolism of the scene he was in. The first time they had met, it had been raining – it had been pouring, really. Rain slipped down his skin, and glued his hair to his scalp. With a shiver, he couldn't shake the feel of dread that settled over him. Something wasn't right… "Then what happened to you?"

Playing a card he had never experienced before, Gilbert tried portraying a soiled innocence. He turned his eyes upward so that the droplets danced downward from his face, licking his wounds and his bruises and sore spots. He said, "It doesn't matter, and I don't want to talk about it." He added, "Can't we get home now?" He didn't have to fake the expression in his eyes.

Matthew winced, as the intensity increased until it was difficult to effectively form thoughts. Wearily, he looked between his friend and the threatening weather. "…Gil…" he began, tiredly, sentences stringing themselves like holiday popcorn within his mind. A sensitive subject he was treading upon. How to approach it was unknown to him, but he knew his friend's personality well. And as long as he kept the subject on the Prussian, the conversation should steadily move itself forward. "You… um." That is, if he could manage to get it started. Blankly, his eyes stared out into the afternoon's air, something incomprehensible coming over him in a gush of wind. His tongue stumbled, and he found himself defeated. But he knew he'd have to ask Gilbert again, because he was beginning to see tears in the corners of the elder's eyes… or was that rain? Probably rain… He would never know, since he dismissed it all with a wave of his hand. "Yeah. Let's get home; it's pouring." Discomfort, like a quilt, tucked itself into his shoulders.

Minutes after, they arrived at the cutoff point – Gilbert was to keep going forward, while Matthew needed to turn. The rain had ceased a bit, and the sun shyly peaked out from behind the clouds. The trees welcomed the sun's rays, and swayed a bit in celebration. Still, it felt like a mist that was running throughout the breeze. Matthew smiled. "I'll see you tomorrow, maybe."

"Depends if I feel like making fun of the others," Gilbert replied airily, waving a bit over his shoulder – it _hurt_ – before continuing on his way. He kept his footsteps normal, quick and steady, and listened to them repeat the same tune to his ears. Calmly, calmly he kept moving, the wind urging him on, and crying with the mist. After a while, Gilbert finally chanced a meek look over his shoulder, searching for purple orbs or a strand of hair… but he saw nothing. So he could express himself any way he wanted to, now that he was not under the blonde's strict scrutiny. Seriously, Matthew had the observation skills of a hawk! He had barely gotten out of the situation with his dignity… but his plan had been set forth, and there wasn't anything stopping it now.

Grief – densely and suddenly – collapsed onto his body. He winced under the figurative pressure, and a fault appeared in his step. After limping a few feet, he straightened up his back to feel the stiffness of it retaliate. A moan, slick and deep, reverberated his neck and he closed his eyes. But no matter what, he kept walking, and felt a multitude of emotions throughout each stride: guilt, pain, guilt, pain, guilt, sickness, pain, sickness. It repeated itself over and over. If only he could stop… but he needed that constant reminder to show him what would happen if everything fell apart.

Gilbert's shoulder now, sang to him once again. He rubbed it with the opposite hand, but the pressure just made eruptions of pain rise throughout his skin. With a growl, his eyes flared, and he dared anything to get in his way on the way home. He was in the mood to kill.

Unknown to the ailing student, Matthew had caught it all from under the cover of the wide trees' branches. He had a sort of determination in his eyes as well, and with it brought a clue of his nightmares – but he was too focused to catch it, and it flew right past him.

* * *

As he pulled open his front door, Gilbert was stiff and uncomfortable. Hisses spread themselves over his lips, and he nearly tripped over a discarded shirt in his front hallway. He slammed the door. "What the hell?" he asked irritably, plucking the garment from the ground and staring at it in distaste.

Then, realization hit him, and he remembered how he had been running late that morning, and had tossed his pajamas throughout the house as he prepared himself… "That should be fun to clean," he grumbled. He tossed it over his shoulder, where it placed an undetectable weight upon his body, and he shifted. Randomly, his shoes were tossed toward the couch, the left one smacking against the side before it landed. He didn't care. Gilbert meandered into his room extremely slowly, since he knew the only thing waiting for him was his homework, and he wasn't going to do that. Suddenly, he received a flicker of dread in his mind. He fingered the frame of his door and peered out. "…Dad?" He called out wearily, listening to his voice echo against the walls.

"Dad…?"

Nothing answered him. Not even his little bird – it might be nestled into one of his socks, fast asleep. Because of the silence, Gilbert cracked a small smile and sighed. He wouldn't have to face his father about what had happened earlier…

Seconds later, the door bell rang, and filled the quiet that Gilbert had longed to achieve. Instantly, his heart fell. Was his Dad home early? That would be unlikely, since it had never happened before, but there _was_ always a first time for everything. If it was so, then he knew it would be a long day. After a thick, precautionary gulp, he hurried across the floor in steady rhythm. "Coming!" he called, not too cheerily, because he didn't want to give his father the satisfaction that he was getting along fine.

Peeling open the door like paper, Gilbert peered into the wind.

He was greeted with tears, blood and stuttering apologies.

Whimpers and hiccups shook Matthew, and he couldn't really breathe. Between trying to talk, crying, and hyperventilating against pain, it didn't give him much room for oxygen. With his hands clasp before his nose, his blood pressed in the cracks in-between his fingers. It spilled like water to the cement, and a faint and flickering trail of it had followed him to the door. Staring at Gilbert pleadingly, Matthew begged with moisture falling from his eyes, "Help me, p-please!"

Without warning, words left Gilbert, and he acted upon his instinct. He reached out, and grabbed the shorter firmly around the shoulders, pulling him into the shelter that was his home – his arms. The door was closed, and blood began to trickle onto his carpet. He paid it no heed, nor did he respond to the apologies that suddenly spurred. In frantic, rushed movements, Gilbert led the younger toward the kitchen, pushing him over the sink. He heard a shuddering gasp as Matthew released his hands, and finally managed to breathe.

Gilbert ran toward the counter – but he had no idea what he was looking for. Bandages? He didn't even know where the other was bleeding from. Ointment? Again, he didn't know the wound… Towels! Yes, he could get paper towels to wipe the access blood. Scrambling, he reached toward the towel rack and ripped nearly half of the tube's paper in his haste. He ran back to Matthew, putting one hand on the back of his head, and the other with the mass of towels against the front of his face.

Flustered, Matthew pulled away from the other's touch, but accepted the paper. He cupped the towels between bloody hands and held it against his nose. The impact burned his senses. But with a few more fast-paced breaths, he was able to maintain his sanity. But throughout it all, his tears wouldn't stop flowing. His glasses were hanging, listlessly, from his pocket. They gleamed in the light, useless and cracked.

Helpless, Gilbert just shifted on his feet. His hands wrung against one another, in a display of impatience. His eyes ran over Matthew's form over and over – he found red scraps against pale forearms, light bruises obscured other features. Just what had happened between the ten minutes Gilbert had left him alone? Gilbert couldn't feel his own numbing pain at the moment; he was determinedly fixed upon Matthew. He kept his frown firm.

A while passed before Matthew was able to just stand there without wobbling. He hiccupped, and the irrationality of his actions finally presented themselves to him. He groaned, not wanting to answer the questions that would soon come his way. …Or maybe Gilbert didn't care! Maybe he just didn't care, and wouldn't ask him anything. That would be ideal, even if it would hurt his feelings.

Distracting himself – he needed Matthew to begin talking first – Gilbert attentively reached out, pulling the glasses into his hands. One lens was shattered with its sharp remnants sticking stubbornly from the sides. He also inspected the blood sticking to the bent frame.

"…I don't know if I'll be able to fix those," Matthew said, weakly, his voice a bit drowned in his breathlessness. Blurs of shapes and blobs of color were playing before his eyes; though he had been in the house many times before, so his mind recognized the patterns. He regretted ever speaking, because he watched Gilbert snap his head upward.

Changing the subject a bit, Gilbert snapped, "What are they like this in the first place? And what happened in the first place?" A roar of emotion overcame his eyes, and he blinked to clear it. It was no use to him to get emotional. He'd end up causing more pain than help. When he didn't get an answer, only a meek whimper, Gilbert sighed in annoyance and rushed forward. His hands clasped the younger's shoulders again, and he twisted him around so Matthew could still comfortably at the kitchen table, on a chair he had turned around to face him. Gilbert remained standing, staring down at the pitiful form. "Now what happened." It wasn't a question.

All notions of his plan were dismissed into something faint in his mind.

Matthew glanced out the window, as if trying to find a form of escape. His white towel was beginning to lack the white – blood slowly spread throughout its surface. Finally, he relented, "…Sorry." Gilbert prompted him on with an irritated gesture. "I-I, um. I guess it was kind of dumb to run all the way here, but you were the first one to jump to mind. And I g-guess your house is closer to where I was. I don't… s-sorry."

"No," Gilbert said, diminishing the angry tone for something more compassionate. At least, he tried. "Just go on. Talk." He didn't have all day. His father would be coming home soon…

"I." He gulped, unsure where to go from there. "I didn't really leave when you did. Y-You see –" The lie came off so fluently that he nearly believed it himself. Maybe he'd been hanging around his brother a bit too much? "I had to tie my shoes again, so I bent down. I was still at that intersection when…" He trailed off, and adjusted the paper towel, but still applying adequate pressure. "There was this really big guy walking. A-And I mean, big as in tall, muscular and… s-scary." The formation of his words became harder and harder, until he was once again a stuttering mess. "He wore this y-yellow shirt, and th-that's all I r-really remember. It was so yellow. Bright yellow. H-He… I um… uh. He came over, th-though I didn't know him at all. He just started… screaming. I don't remember what he w-was yelling a-a-about, but I don't know what I d-d-did w-wrong, either! I just… stood there, flustered, and he p-punched me. Like, really hard." He whimpered, pulling the red towel off, and requesting another.

Quickly, Gilbert was up, and he hurried back with the second batch of towels. There was already blood stains sinking into Matthew's clothing, a few more wouldn't hurt. Fury overtaking his actions, he demanded, "What the hell was wrong with him?!"

The reply was muffled, "I don't know. I think I must h-have done something wrong, though, for him to punch me like that with such madness."

"Doesn't he know not to punch kids with glasses? Fucking idiot." Finally, Gilbert allowed himself to kneel in front of Matthew. His plan was in the front of his mind again, haunting him, and never leaving him in peace. Gently, he placed the glasses on the table behind the lower classman, and sighed. "Man, our lives are screwed," he mumbled, off-handedly. His mind bubbled in anticipation. This was the moment he had been waiting for for months…

With a naturally confused expression, Matthew questioned, "What are you talking about?" The pain in his nose made it difficult to breathe, but he wouldn't let the other know.

Gilbert was concerned for Matthew, and he had a flame in his chest that wanted him to find the yellow-shirted bastard and beat the daylights out of him. But something else, more urgent, placed itself in front of the situation. He slowly pondered, "…Well, we're both gettin' beat up on for no reason whatsoever." Gilbert cut Matthew off before he could accuse about the bruises. "And…" He cast upon the other a critical eye. "I've noticed that you're pretty sick of bein' confused for others and invisible, right?"

Surprise was Matthew's first reaction. Matthew hadn't confided any of that… to anyone, actually. How could… how could Gilbert have guessed? With a new gleam to his eye, he could only bring himself to nod in agreement.

Knowingly, Gilbert bobbed his head. "Right. Thought so." He put his hand out to push away blood-tipped hair from Matthew's face, and was a bit confused when the other's breath suddenly hitched. Despite that, he ignored it. "And I've got a proposal." He leaned in, making the aurora of the situation known – confidential, it was all confidential, and off the great importance. If only a bit, he rose on his toes, so that he could whisper right beside the boy's ear. But he waited until he said anything, to build up the tension. "It'll fix everything…"

With his face flushing at the proximity and the breath of heavy words against his ear, Matthew nervously prompted, "Wh-What will?"

Like a trembling wind on a freezing winter's night, Gilbert gasped, "Run away with me…"

* * *

**A/N**: Ho ho ho. I've been waiting for this cliffhanger. WAITING, I TELL YOU.

…You were probably waiting too, eh? Ahem. –coughs nervously–

Song for this chapter: _**Her Diamonds**_** by Rob Thomas**. Awesome song, seriously, and for this chapter it can fit into either's point of view. Actually, I tried to make it into both of their point of views.

Father was hinted at so much, but so vaguely, I'm sorry. He's coming up… in two or three chapters, maybe?

I've avoided giving Kiku a sub-plot so far, yippee. I don't want this getting too confusing, since almost every character is interlaced and tied…

SOMEONE TEACH ME HOW TO WRITE GREECE. NOW, SERIOUSLY. D:

Long chapter is long. And I'm not helping with my longer-than-average Author's Notes, actually. -is a contradiction- But for this one, I really have nothing to say as of yet…

I'd love to hear your thoughts upon this new twist (this new twist is the action that I've been talking about, by the way… **if this twist didn't take you by surprise, I must have failed**), since it's something I didn't really hint at…

At all…

And you know how hard that is for me.

Foreshadowing, not to do that.

I _always_ do that.

...

**Preview for next chapter**:

"_Oh, Matt," he said, afterward, and the three looked to him attentively at his regretful tone. "I'm so sorry… the guy was big, right, you said?" Alfred gestured with his hands, the pensive expression still stubbornly fixed. "And did he have dreadlocks, which, you know, hung down like wind chimes? And with his face, was he –"_

_Francis had calmly interrupted, "Yes, I think we get the point."_

"_That sounds like him…" Matthew affirmed, weakly._

_Alfred instantly cringed, looking around the room for nothing in particular. He just needed to avoid the others' gazes._


	8. Blue

He couldn't sleep despite how hard he tried. Lying awake and staring at the ceiling, those words echoed within his mind. Even when he would be gifted a wink of sleep, his nightmares would steal it away and hide it within the depths of his conscious. Matthew tried his best to replay every scene back in his mind: what had gone wrong?

After Gilbert's breathy words, Matthew had managed to avoid the subject all together by standing up and promptly leaving, face flushed. He had grabbed his glasses like a lifeline and managed to escape, without his dignity, though. It was such a damsel-like move, but he had been put on the spot. And he always ran from conflict.

As he had gotten home, Matthew's family had flocked to him like moths to a light – _"Where were you?!" "You had me worried, _mon cher_, and… ah! What is with the blood? What happened?!" "Mattie, dude, you can't get into a fight 'fore me. It's not fair." _– and he had to relay every detail back to them. He had excluded Gilbert's role by substituting their neighbor for him, saying how nice she was, giving him towels and all. Alfred had paled considerably at the beginning of it.

"Oh, Matt," he said, afterward, and the three looked to him attentively at his regretful tone. "I'm so sorry… the guy was big, right, you said?" Alfred gestured with his hands, the pensive expression still stubbornly fixed. "And did he have dreadlocks, which, you know, hung down like wind chimes? And with his face, was he –"

Francis had calmly interrupted, "Yes, I think we get the point."

"That sounds like him…" Matthew affirmed, weakly.

Alfred instantly cringed, looking around the room for nothing in particular. He just needed to avoid the others' gazes. "Ha ha, 'bout that, I um… that just might be Estefan. This guy. I kinda like makin' fun of him, but his blood boils so quickly, and he's had it out for me since… well, kindergarten, I think. …Um. He might have thought you were me, or somethin'."

Distastefully, Arthur groaned. "Alfred, please, don't try to make this about yourself." He turned his attention back to where it belonged – on his youngest. Though he was pondering how Alfred could have possibly given someone a grudge to hold in kindergarten. Did he steal the kid's crayons or something like that? He didn't know, and he wasn't going to waste his time asking. When he was about to question Matthew further, he was surprised as he spoke up.

"…That could have happened," Matthew insisted, attentively, though he was firmly aware that his family had no clue about how often he had been called Alfred, or sent to the office because of his brother. It was a secret he had kept to himself – but thinking of it made him think of Gilbert, who had figured it all out, so he stopped.

After sticking his tongue out at Arthur, Alfred patted his brother's shoulder. "Good, now you've got a bit more awesome!"

Hearing the word 'awesome', Matthew bristled. But it was lost to his family.

"Here, here," Francis chided, steering Matthew into the kitchen. "Let's make sure you're all okay, hm?" A pleasant and transparent smile lined his fine lips like a gloss. When they were finally alone, with their feet against cool tile and Arthur and Alfred's bickering bold in their ears, Francis spared one look over his shoulder. With fiery eyes, he stared his son on straight-on. "I've told you this time and time again, _Mathieu_," he said, the name falling without the fondness it usually held. It sounded – and tasted – blander, with a disappointed ring to it. After a chillingly firm pat to the back, Francis moved Matthew to face him. As he spoke, he carefully assessed for more urgent wounds. "If someone is bothering you, you know, teasing you, making fun of you, or especially if they're hurting you physically, don't hesitate to tell me." He tilted the younger's chin up, looking for anything on his neck – any bites, scratches or blood. He found a smear of the red liquid near the collar, and used a damp napkin to wipe it away. "I don't want you thinking that I don't care. Just, please, tell someone sooner, mm? So that this can be stopped. It's unacceptable…" And he gave a hearty, soft laugh as he delivered his last words. "Such a pretty face doesn't deserve to be marred, now does it?"

During his father's subtle articulation, Matthew was singularly attempting to create a flow in his mind. Random words were being thrown every which way. Where was up, or down? Right and wrong? He didn't know anymore. But to create the façade of an eased mind, he managed to speak. "But I told you, Papa, I didn't know the guy! He did it because he thought I was Alfred."

Clicking his tongue, Francis shook his head. "That's impossible, you two look nothing alike." Though feeling a bit bad about lying through his teeth, he knew it was what his son needed to hear. The only way he managed to distinguish the twins from one another was spontaneously speaking French. The one who replied or understood was Matthew, and the one who shouted, "Do we have a cat? I hear purring," was Alfred. (Francis found that sounded like a cat was a compliment – cats were seductive and predatory creatures, after all.)

"…It's the only thing I can think of," Matthew defended, "for him to punch me so hard. And Alfred even admitted to making him mad!" He shook off the caring and lightly caressing hands. At the doorway, he said with a strained smile, "Don't worry, Papa! I'm fine."

…He was nothing but fine at the moment. He turned over in his bed, but the sheets wouldn't relent and still held tight to his frame. It was like a suffocating cocoon, and it held him captive for the rest of the night.

* * *

"I knew public schools weren't worth it," Arthur commented, starkly, as he tapped his fingers over and over again on the warm porcelain of his cup. "They let him walk home with a bloody nose. It's great to know that's where our tax money's going, pfft." He chuckled darkly at his own masochistic humor, and stole a sip. He was staring out of a bleak window, wondering where he had gone wrong.

Francis chuckled, in his smooth and almost silky way of his, and let the noise stream throughout the dim home before speaking. In his right hand, he held the wine glass by the stem, the heaviest part resting between two fingers. The liquid swirled, round and round, as he twirled it for his own entertainment. "Oh, Arthur," he bemusedly disciplined, "You know we didn't have enough money for that fancy private school that you were eyeing. And for two of them? Ha." He slowly shook his head back and forth, letting his hair cascade over his face like a waterfall. If his husband had been facing him, he was sure it would have been found arousing. But alas, the night didn't look like one for pleasure. He eased a bit of his wine over his lips, savoring it.

"We would have found a way, damn it."

With his amusement falling, he gave a heavy sigh that passed down-turned lips. "_Mathieu _wasn't even hit on campus, love. It was as he was walking home, remember? It has nothing to do with the school."

Arthur growled. "Then it's this bloody neighborhood. It shouldn't have happened – it couldn't have happened if there weren't so many hoodlums 'round."

He found it quite intriguing that Arthur was so bent out of shape after the incident. Maybe it had been too much tea? Who knew the effects it would harbor on someone's state of mind, and at the rate the Englishman was chugging it down… With a heavy, bothersome sigh, Francis lightly placed his own glass on the cabinet, next to pictures of their family. He crossed the room in undetectable steps (sneaking had always been a pastime of his) and then stopping when he was standing behind the large armchair Arthur was seated in. (Francis always figured that Arthur picked such an exceedingly large chair just to make up for his short stature.) At first, his hands slithered down the material, feeling the embroidery tickle his fingertips. Still, Arthur made no affirmation that he knew what the other was planning. Then Francis' hands crawled down, and quicker than could be seen, swiped the china from the other's hands.

Bristling, Arthur shouted as some of it washed over the confines of the cup and onto his vest. It would leave a stain later, he was sure, and he was not amused. He stood, and stretched to take the tea back. "Francis, damn it. Give that back!" His hands fisted at the top of the chair, and it was pressed against his ribcage. His eyes swore destruction.

In a move that he didn't see coming himself, Francis spared a smirk before downing the whole cup. He felt raw heat burn the sides of his throat, and the taste made his tongue heavy and soiled. Nonetheless, Francis kept the face of apathetic responsibility. (He had always been a flawless actor since he was young.) His stomach began churning in revolt, not liking the filth its owner had filled it with. In a demanding and unquestionable tone, he said, "_Non_, that is quite enough, my love. You'll drink yourself to death with this stuff."

"Same goes for you and your bloody wine," Arthur interrupted in a low tone.

Ignoring the comment, Francis went on. "It seems that whenever you get your hands on it, it puts you in such a horribly whiney and sorrowful mood." He reached out, and pressed one slender finger to the other's nose. He winked. "And that's not attractive now, is it?" He pulled his hand away before it could have been slapped; it was a skill he had learned early on. "At least, I don't like it." Hauntingly, he felt bile rise in his throat. He didn't disagree with the tea that much, did he? It seemed rather unlikely… but he ignored it, and didn't express his inner turmoil. "Now, I say that we just make sure _Mathieu_ doesn't come home like that again. If he does, we'll step in – but the last thing a teenager wants is nosey parents. I know by experience." It was difficult to tell his own parents about the magazines under his pillow/behind his bed/in his closet when he was younger… "Deal?" He carefully held the empty china in two hands, and surveyed his partner's quick emotions.

Instead of a dignified response, Arthur handed him one of his fiercest glares and stormed past him. The motion created a disturbingly cold wind to force itself upon them. Then, after stomping down the hallway, he said over his shoulder, "You're sleeping on the couch, you frog."

The door slammed, and Francis sighed again. Honestly, he had seen it coming: he knew how sensitive his husband was to his tea addiction. But the couch? He winced, as he turned to look at the twenty-year old… thing. It was matted and brown and… it wasn't supposed to be brown. Francis hadn't slept on it since the month before, and he wasn't looking forward to it.

He placed the empty china on the table, and picked up his half-empty wine glass instead. The only light on in the house was standing forlornly beside him. It was a familiar scene, but he didn't think much of it, for he didn't want nightmares. Francis swirled the liquid for a few more moments, watching it glint and sway, before downing it in one shot again. Once more, he felt nauseous, but he only scrunched up his nose. He put the glass down, and pulled the hair-band from his wrist to tie his hair up. It was going to be a long night, he knew, as he dejectedly lay back onto the couch.

* * *

His fingers twitched over his notebook, and again over his novel. He couldn't get anything out of his head. Little things replayed over until Kiku was fully convinced that they surely did matter. He groaned under his breath, trying to tell himself to _get a grip_ – that it wasn't what he thought it was. Surely it wasn't –

But when Gilbert reached out, and swiped stray strands of hair from Matthew's face for the _third time_, Kiku was nearly a pile of goo at his desk.

None of it showed on his continence, however, he was extremely skilled in keeping his emotions in check and primarily internal. He moved his books around a couple more times, trying to distract himself. But he couldn't help trying to get eye contact with Mrs. Héderváry, wanting to show her the potential he found in her students. She was busy typing on her computer, though, so it was a lost cause.

Kiku sighed, and closed his eyes, trying his best not to pick up on their conversation, not to eavesdrop (it was impolite!), not to –

"You never gave me a reply, Mattie~!"

A deep flush, adverted gaze and reluctant tongue. "I kn-know, I don't h-have one yet, I told you. Just… I don't know." He looked back to his reading, but he clearly wasn't soaking in the material.

Gilbert had a know-it-all grin. "You didn't even let me explain myself, but ah-right. I'll wait for you!" A wink.

A stutter in response.

Kiku pressed his textbook to his forehead three times. It was becoming hard not to strain his eyes to the articulation passed between them! It was just so… interesting. It had an all-around mystery with vague sentences, hushed tones, and a thick sense of… _romance_ surrounding it all.

He hit himself again. If he kept reading others, he'd have no time to read the assigned work. Maybe he should work on that? He bent low over his desk, his eyes trained even lower. Luckily, he was situated in the back (Gilbert stole his seat again) so no one could take in his disheveled state and question him on it. Despite that, he kept stealing glances around the room, while his pencil shaded in the gaps on his paper.

Finally, he settled himself and gave a silent and hefty sigh. Kiku was going to finish his work, and not get distracted by –

"Class is over, Kiku."

Kiku heard her, but put her on hold for a moment. He was able to catch a glance as Gilbert left, with Matthew at his side. Matthew seemed extremely uncomfortable and flustered. Not catching on to that, Gilbert slung an arm around his shoulders and laughed.

Then, they were out of his sight.

Elizaveta grinned. "I caught onto them on the first day Gilbert came in," she chimed proudly into the empty classroom.

Kiku looked up, slightly jealous. "…Oh. But they aren't –? You know, right?"

With a wistful sigh, she shook her head in the negative. "I wish! Though, they've definitely gotten closer to one another over the past... week or so, I'd say." She looked to her student, catching his attention. "Well, we can track their progress together, yes?" It was amusing – Kiku's secret side. She was sure she was the only one who knew about it, and it made her feel like they were on a secret team or something of the sort.

"Of course, _senpai_," Kiku affirmed, slipping back into his tight posture and disciplined tone when he realized the time. "Now, I must be heading out, if you don't mind. I've got someone to meet."

After raising an eyebrow, Mrs. Héderváry guessed, "Oh, that Greek one, is it~?" Her voice wasn't completely innocent.

Kiku neither denied nor approved her statement. He bowed, and said, "See you tomorrow." Kiku had already stuffed everything into his bag within the period they had been speaking and felt slightly proud at his timing. It was already swung over his shoulders and hanging blearily as he briskly exited.

The hallways were distastefully empty. Well, it was a Friday, Kiku figured – everyone had probably been in a rush to leave. But did that mean Heracles would have left too? Their meeting place was situated two hallways down, at the front of the building. He might have gotten bored and left… Kiku shook off such thoughts, assuring himself that Heracles had never left before, so it wouldn't be probable for him to suddenly do so…

Suddenly, there were footsteps behind him. They were clumsy, and failing at their attempt to fall in line with his. Kiku listened to them get louder and louder, echoing against the walls, before he chanced a look behind him. But he didn't get any glance – blackness shrouded his vision, and something else was weakly pressed against his mouth.

"I've got you~!" said someone, with a dastardly familiar voice.

Kiku reasoned. Heracles was just down the corner. He had been just a simple turn away from reaching him. If Kiku was to say his name, Heracles would be able to hear it even if it was a whisper. Oh, what was going on? And why was it all in such terrible timing?

He realized that if he was to shout, Heracles, in all likelihood, would run to his rescue… but Kiku's voice was numb in his throat. Fear was constricting it. He just wanted to call out… but…

Was his life at danger?

He was at school still – it wasn't likely, he figured.

Then, the worst happened.

A yawn that Kiku knew by heart came from the entryway. He didn't need his vision to figure out who it was, or what happened next.

With his eyes closed, Heracles began, "Kiku, oh Kiku? You back here? I was waiting, but –" His voice died as he took in the scene in front of him. He stalled, and then flared. "Hey! Let him go!"

"Oh!" Kiku didn't like how close the voice was to his head. "You're just in time~!"

…Just in time for _what_?

* * *

**A/N**: Sorry. I lied – I gave Kiku [and Heracles] a side-plot. –whimpers– Dun kill me. ;~;

Oh, and by the way, I have nothing against tea; if that was the image you got from that scene. I love tea, but it had to be bashed in this for more effect. ;D

This chapter was going to be all Matthew and Gilbert-centric, since this chapter should be all about them, but then I realized, "Oh, there are other characters, too." I had forgotten about Francis and Arthur, honestly. Pfft, I fail. But now you have no idea what Matthew's doing, so it gives mystery. P:

Song for this chapter: _**Blue (Da Ba De) **_**by Eiffel**. It fits since… well; everyone's life is going down the drain at this point. P; (I might change this!)

Just a head's up: the dad's coming out next chapter, so… look out for him~! (Just joking; it'll be obvious who he is.)

**Preview for next chapter**:

"_Let him go," Heracles repeated, for good measure, staring into clear blue eyes. He wasn't wavering. His hands clenched and unclenched – he knew what kind of situation they were in, and it was getting him angrier by the moment._

_The captor pouted. "But Kiku hasn't guessed who I am yet~! It's no fun if he doesn't guess."_

_With a dead-pan voice, the brunette explained, "You're covering his mouth."_

"_Oh!" He let go the one hand, and lightly apologized._

_Kiku breathed, "I know who you are. And this isn't funny anymore."_


	9. Take Me Under

"Let him go," Heracles repeated, for good measure, staring into clear blue eyes. He wasn't wavering. His hands clenched and unclenched – he knew what kind of situation they were in, and it was getting him angrier by the moment.

The captor pouted. "But Kiku hasn't guessed who I am yet~! It's no fun if he doesn't guess."

With a dead-pan voice, the brunette explained, "You're covering his mouth." A twitch formed below his eyes. He shook a bit in anger.

"Oh!" He let go the one hand, and lightly apologized.

Kiku breathed, "I know who you are. And this isn't funny anymore." Black was all he could see, but red flashed for a moment. What was he trying to do by holding him captive like this? It was unlike him, and - … actually, when Kiku thought about it, it was _just_ like him to be doing it! Slowly, he felt bad for Heracles, since Heracles never got along with him… Kiku groped at the hand covering his eyes. "Can you let me go now? Please, I'm getting a bit annoyed."

"But who am I~?"

A tense and rather misplaced silence fell over them. Kiku was unwilling, the stranger was impatient, and Heracles was simply angered. None of them wanted to let go of their defenses.

Luckily, Elizaveta wasn't wearing high heels. If she had been, surely her presence would have been declared and she couldn't have stopped at the corner to investigate. There was Kiku, and Heracles, and then there was him. She didn't have him as a student, though he seemed familiar… She scrunched up her nose, trying to remember, as she waited for them to continue talking.

With something along the lines of a hiss, Heracles crossed his arms and said, "Kiku, just say his damn name. The idiot won't get any satisfaction otherwise." He was nearly tempted to reveal the identity himself, but the name tasted like salt on his lips.

"Meanie," said the third party.

Kiku relented. "You're Alfred. Now let me go!" He didn't think he could stand the contact anymore. He pushed a bit against the abnormally strong grip, and when it suddenly fell, it caused him to stumble forward. Despite him easily regaining his balance, there were two heavy hands that suddenly clutched his shoulders, and pulled his body behind. Staring at the back of Heracles' head, Kiku tried to make sure his face wasn't radiating access heat.

"…That was more dramatic in my head," Alfred whined, absently fingering his hair. He glanced out a window, then toward a door. But he was captured by flaring dark green eyes, causing him to squeak.

Heracles steadily demanded, "What do you want?"

Judging by the expression the Greek wore, Alfred could tell that a grudge was still held. He chuckled nervously, rubbing his forehead in an attempt to say it as clearly as possible… but he ended up laughing. He stepped off of his own train of thought to ask, "Dude, don't tell me you're still upset about how in third grade I –" He was cut off.

"Shut up. We're not talking about that." He rolled his eyes, and then took his shorter friend by the arm in a light, unused touch. "Come on, Kiku. If he's got nothing to say, then we have nothing to stick around for."

"Wait!" Alfred cried, wavering on his feet. He hadn't waited for so long (five minutes) for nothing! Though he had intended to approach this subject when Kiku was alone, he figured he had no other choice. If he tried to talk to Kiku himself, Heracles wouldn't allow it. So he heavily sighed, and began in a vague sense of words, "…Mattie told me not to do this, but I can't really help myself."

Elizaveta stirred. Matthew! That was why this other person seemed so undeniably familiar… they had to be brothers at the least. She pressed her back against the wall, making sure she couldn't be seen. Her school bag was listless and forgotten in her left hand, and in anticipation, she chewed upon the fingers of her right.

Kiku bit his lip. What did Matthew have to do with… whatever was going on? Was karma finally catching with him for creating relationships in his mind? But he tried not to think that hard. He couldn't even read what Alfred was getting at… "Yes?"

Heracles had trouble conjuring up the image of the purple-eyed and blonde student, but after a few moments, it sunk in. Despite the confirmation, he didn't let his hand stray from Kiku's arm. It was a hovering and slight inevitable touch.

Darn, Alfred hadn't really thought it out that far. He had only been concerned with the ninja-sneak-up. He looked between them, wondering who it would be easier to address foremost… but with the stares fixed upon him, he couldn't help but make a big scene. Alfred pressed a hand to his hairline, and decidedly clicked his tongue. "Oh, woe is me that I must go against my fair twin brother's word!" He put his hands out. "To… to even think, by being here, I am forcing dear Matthew to walk home alone! How he will get along without me, I may never know!" Suddenly, he felt a sharp twist in his heart. Matthew, alone? He had just gotten beaten up the day before… maybe, he reasoned, that this all hadn't been such a hot idea. But, undaunted, he went on in a louder-than-average voice, "But I am doing this in your favor, Kiku." He sought out dark eyes, but they were favorably adverted.

"And what exactly are you doing for him?" Heracles asked harshly, only sparing a glance over his shoulder to his friend. It didn't seem like Kiku knew what was going on, either.

Alfred smirked, and leaned forward in a bow. His arm was against his chest, as if a cape to it. "I would like to assist you in your declaration of love, of course!"

Elizaveta dropped her bag. It tipped over once it hit the ground, and her jaw dropped with it. "Oh no he didn't," she breathed into the silence, and she wasn't heard. Her hands clasped over her wide mouth. Her heart puttered in sympathy for poor Kiku, and she swore that one day Alfred would meet the back of her hand. She didn't like this twin just from that statement… didn't he know that Kiku was planning on confessing later, by himself, in a less-embarrassing and dignified manner?! Now Heracles would think that Kiku needed someone else to say it for him, even though, despite his appearance, Kiku was actually quite straight-forward. She sighed, her cupped hands moving to slap her forehead.

Interested, Heracles raised an eyebrow. "Huh?" Little Kiku had a crush? Why was he the last one to know? He turned around, his anger for the blonde subsiding – if only for a moment – to succumb to his curiosity. His arms crossed.

Like a bomb, Kiku's face exploded in color. Who… who told Alfred this?! Matthew? But Matthew didn't know… actually, no one knew! How could… was he just that obvious? He stuttered, "P-Please don't, A-A-Alfred-s-san!" His utterances were too low and too undecipherable to be heard. To everyone else, he just sounded like just a string of noises, and the warning he emitted wasn't taken to heart.

Alfred smiled, taking the fresh layer of color on Kiku's fair face as approval, or sincere admission. He stood up straighter again, and cleared his throat.

Mrs. Héderváry debated. Should she stop it from occurring? No, she reasoned, it was too late – even if she stepped in, Heracles would surely question the Asian later. She heavily exhaled. Poor Kiku…

Knowing how to set effect, Alfred made sure to hold the silence until Heracles was staring at him. He opened his mouth…

"You know what? It doesn't matter," Heracles interrupted, his arms falling at his sides again, and looking away in guilt. "Kiku shouldn't have his secrets spilled like this." He found a new reason to look the twin on in distaste. Again, he put a hand on Kiku's arm. This time, he finally managed to pull the other from the room before he could be deterred.

Still flustered, Kiku only looked behind him, as Alfred stood with his face almost horrified. "But… but… but…" Alfred wailed, and then irrelevantly said, "The happy ending! Where is it?" He looked down at his hands and pouted. "'Tis not here…" Ultimately disappointed, he watched as the hallway fell into silence.

Elizaveta smiled and it was something soft and sweet, completely opposite of her normally crazed grin. Her eyes sparkled in respect. How wonderful, she thought. She bent over to clasp the bag again. As she walked away, she had a brand new skip to her step, and another reason to keep teaching.

At the school's exit (Heracles was walking extremely fast, for some reason) Kiku struggled to find a reason for his other friend's outburst. He slipped back and forth into his first language. "G-_Gomenasai_, H-Heracles-san. I-I have no idea what Alfred-san was doing. _Sumimasen_ for any –"

Heracles stopped his frantic footsteps to fully face him. His hands rested on his shoulders, and the brunette requested of him, "Kiku. Breathe." When the other complied, he smoothly laughed. "It was all just amusing, mmkay? No harm done. I won't press you on the issue, because I know I wouldn't like it. Does that make you feel better?"

"H-_Hai_," Kiku said, staring upward in full submission.

Heracles laughed again. Too cute, he thought, smiling. He let go of him and said, "So, are we still on for that scary movie over at your place?" Changing the subject, he happily observed, relieved some of the tension from the other's shoulders.

"Yes," Kiku affirmed, grinning modestly. "This one's quite a scare, though."

"Oh, I'm already shaking!"

"Funny."

* * *

It was a bright and sunny Saturday morning – obviously, it had to be turned upside-down eventually. That was the outlook of a police station. If they expected a nice day, they'd end up with a triple homicide or a terrorist attack. Every member waited patiently at their desks, in rooms littered within two floors, for something to happen. Some of them passed time by mulling over details of their current case, while others loitered around in search of something to occupy their curiosity.

In the lobby, one large desk sat that held a bullet-proof glass in front of it. A single, collapsible window was situated in front of a lone secretary. Potted plants were sitting everywhere in an almost forced thought of hospitality. Stretching from the room, were four hallways – two went back from either side of the receptionist desk and the other two in opposite directions when you first walked in. With everything, except for that desk empty, it created a dull look for such a place.

As a blonde officer perambulated the hallway, heading for the snack machine, the peace shattered into tiny pieces.

Bursting through the double-doors came two men, each of them looking from each other to their surroundings. They brought with them a clamor of excitement. Seeing the single officer, they flocked to him. "Please," one shouted, "You have to help us."

"C-Calm down," said the officer, taking in their fumbling appearances. He glanced toward the startled secretary and said, "Nancy, please cancel my next meeting, thank you."

"Yes, sir," was the reply, and after that was many tapings on a keyboard.

The pair began speaking at the same time, neither of them explaining anything, or creating anything solid.

The officer put up his hands. "Please, let's take this into my office. There, maybe you could calm down and tell me the whole story…" He motioned meekly with his fingers as he lead them back down the hallway he had came from – the one on the secretary's right. He walked quicker than normal, because the pair was in an extreme hurry to get there. He passed a few offices – one, two, three – before coming to his own. After opening it wide, he let them in first.

When they were all situated, the officer locked the door behind them. If he was bothered, it wouldn't look as respectable. He moved around his desk, and sat behind it, holding his hands together on top of it. He looked the two over, who had taken the seats in front of him. "Now, explain."

Arthur looked about ready to spill everything, but then his voice faltered and he sank lower into his seat.

Stepping to the plate, Francis smoothly took his place. His face was redder than could be normal, and his eyes were bloodshot and flickering. As he spoke, every other word was interrupted by a shuddering cough, and his voice wavered and croaked. "Y-You see, fair sir, o-our son seems to have gone missing overnight." He used his trembling hands to express a disappearance. His body shook. "H-He didn't come home last night, or anything. B-But I was thinking, o-oh you know, he's a teenager and it would be normal if he finally did something like party all night… but when he didn't show up this morning, we couldn't deny our…" A fit of coughs overtook him, and he lurched forward a bit, his arm holding his stomach and he struggled to make out the last word, "w-w-worries!"

Concerned, the blonde officer knitted his eyebrows together. "Sir, are you alright? You seem awfully… sick."

Francis looked up, his deep blue eyes conveying a slight disappointment. "This isn't about me." It was a finalized and horrifyingly steady statement.

Arthur shifted.

After looking away from the glare, the officer asked, "Why didn't you call ahead?"

Despite the fact that his husband seemed finally ready to speak, Francis kept going on. "You see, Arthur here isn't patient, and we were sure that we'd be ignored. So we simply c-came here ourselves, if you don't mind. Why? Is there something wrong, officer?" A thin albeit clearly visible layer of sweat made Francis' face shine in the light.

"N-No," the officer affirmed.

A loud knocking came upon the door.

Arthur concernedly turned around to look at it. "Shouldn't you –?"

"Ignore that," the officer assured, glaring toward the wooden slab in impatience. "Now, where do you last remember your son being?" He pulled out a small notepad from his pocket, and plucked a pen from his desk. He intended to write down every word.

Arthur opened his mouth, but the door shook against the force applied to it. "…Someone's still knocking," he stated instead. "Shouldn't you –?"

The officer shook his head. "No, just –"

But when the knocking came again, but louder and more insistent, the officer growled. He rose from his seat in a fury, and the only sound that occupied it was his quiet cusses and Francis' rasping coughs. He pulled open the door. "What is –!"

A blur rushed into the room, holding a stack of papers that shrouded his face. His loud and cheery voice made up for the lack of identity. "Ve~! Ludwig, look! I organized all those papers, just like you asked, see~!" He made a move forward, but ended up falling victim to gravity.

His papers covered the small room like snow, falling everywhere and anywhere.

Francis sneezed.

The officer, Ludwig, scowled viciously. "Feliciano!" He cried, obviously displeased at the mess and the interruption. "Please, you could have showed me these later! I-I have visitors at the moment."

Feliciano pouted, looking as if he'd sprout tears at any second. "I-I'm so sorry, please don't hurt me! Forgive me; I'll never do it again!" He bent down, scooping up a few papers and bending them all. "L-Look, I'll clean it up!"

Ludwig took the papers from his hands, and dumped them back to the floor, despite his inner twitches at the mess. "No, no," he said soothingly, "just leave them. I'll get to them later. Now please, if you don't mind…" He pressed a hand to the younger's back, and urged him toward the door.

"Oh, okay, ve," said Feliciano, dejectedly. He walked away, down the hallway, with his pout firm.

With a sigh, Ludwig shut the door again. The wind the action created scattered many more of the papers. "I'm sorry about that," he said to the pair. "Feliciano's just started today, you see. And even though he's my intern, and supposed to be doing what I am…" Nervously, he looked behind him, as if the Italian would appear out of thin air. "…but as you can see, I can't trust him with a gun. He can't even handle the paperwork…" He rubbed his forehead, feeling the incomings of headache creep up on him.

When Francis began coughing again, it lulled him back into his task at hand. Ludwig moved back behind the desk, and apologized as he picked up the pen. "A-As you were saying?"

The door creaked a bit, but no one paid it any mind.

Arthur cleared his throat free of any suppressed sobs. "He was at school yesterday. We didn't get any calls saying that he had missed any classes, so we're sure something happened as he was walking home…" With misted eyes, he remembered how Alfred had come home late, surprised that his brother hadn't gotten there before he had. Arthur had shouted at him for leaving his brother alone (Alfred had said he had business to take care of, but he didn't believe him), and he could vividly remember the guilt and remorse that had taken over the teenager's expression. Arthur still felt bad.

After Ludwig scrawled it down, he fumbled for a moment. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, looking up with a natural frown. "Ha, I didn't get any names or anything…" He chided himself for getting so absorbed in his first case in a week to forget such an elementary detail.

Francis nodded. "I'm Francis Bonnefoy, and his is my husband…" He lazily moved his quavering finger in the other's direction. "Arthur. Our missing…" He stumbled over the mention of 'missing'. It was too fresh to inflict without pain. "…s-son is Matthew." He was overtaken by coughs again, and his head felt so much lighter than it had moments ago…

Ludwig wrote it down, his handwriting messy in his haste. For some reason, their names seemed so familiar. Where had he heard them before? He couldn't remember. He looked toward them again to say something else, but so many things happened at once.

Francis fell forward, limp and unconscious in a dead faint, and in response, Arthur leaped up to hold him. He pushed the other back into the chair, and knelt before him, looking toward an expressionless face. In a comforting gesture, he pressed the back of his hand to Francis' cheek, and felt how it burnt his skin.

At the same time, the door opened with an unusual noise of weariness. Standing in full form was Ludwig's father – a face he hadn't encountered for years, but could recall by heart. "D-Dad," he stuttered, his pen falling.

But the father wasn't looking at him. He was staring into Arthur's green eyes that had suddenly caught his own. "Oh, it seems we meet again," he chuckled. "And Francis is still useless, isn't he?" Injecting a horrible aura into a room was his specialty. He addressed his son this time. He held his hands behind his back, and rolled a bit on his feet. "Your little brother has conveniently gone missing, too, so you may add that to your notes~!"

"Gi-Gilbert?!" Ludwig cried.

Arthur bristled, his heart screaming and his breathing failing him. Gilbert went missing… at the same time as… Matthew? It could only mean… one thing… He moved to clutch his husband's hands, wishing more than anything that he was awake to help him through the new development. He tried to look anywhere but at the new addition to the room, but he inevitably found his gaze drawn to the man.

"Arthur~!" The man chimed, when he met the Englishman's gaze. His voice was too sweet for the situation.

His sobs coming back to haunt him, Arthur pressed his forehead to Francis' slow chest. He closed his eyes, and tried to listen for Francis' heartbeat. "…Ivan," he greeted, with a crack in his voice.

* * *

**A/N**: …My heart was pounding as I wrote this, even though I knew who it was. Did you guys get that feeling, too?

Song is: _**Take Me Under**_** by Three Days Grace**. The song could be from anyone's perspective, even though it was from Matthew's in my original plan. Just… yeah, anyone's.

I don't have much to say, other than the fact that this chapter has to be my favorite – I managed to write it a lot better and easier than I had planned. I'm so glad~! I got to introduce three new characters, love!

…This chapter kind of shows that France/England is slowly itching its way into my heart, eh?

…No one's really responded to that FST note I had. I got one yes, and one no, so I'm like, "…Um?" Anyone else have an opinion? …Please?

**Preview for next chapter**:

_Elizaveta's heart lurched into her throat. The note on her desk was written in a formal, loopy cursive handwriting. It screamed a happy get-together, but in all reality, it withheld a horror that she'd never felt before. …But it didn't make sense._

_She honestly didn't think Gilbert would let that happen._

**R&R~!**


	10. Pain of Love

Despite the tangled mess that his mind had become, Ludwig managed to swallow his confusion and run toward the couple. "Is he alright?" It was such an unneeded question, but so natural that he couldn't help it. He cleared his throat. "Does… does Francis have a history of faints?" All at once, flashbacks overtook him.

Francis…

Arthur…

M-Matthew…

Horrified, he looked toward his father. They met each other's eyes, and between them, familiarity clicked.

Ivan winked.

It was _that_ Francis, and _that_ Arthur.

Who would have thought?

Arthur croaked, "N-No. He's never d-done it before. I kn-know he's sick, b-but…" He seemed ready to crawl out of his own skin. He was fidgeting, frowning and shuddering. Concerned, he looked to the officer. "Should… should we call the hospital?"

Determined to keep his presence fresh in everyone's mind, Ivan cooed, "They needn't waste their equipment on him~!" Though he was ignored, he saw by the sudden downfall of Arthur's pose and Ludwig's twitch that he accomplished the right effect.

After a moment, Ludwig's answer presented itself before him.

"O-Oi, did someone run me over?" Mopping his fingers against his pounding head, Francis pushed a smile below squinted eyes. "It sure feels like it, _mon ami_." He attempted a small laugh, but his throat was too dry and sore for it to be successful. His frizzed and unkempt locks of hair obscured his vision, rendering him incapable of seeing the person lurking in the back corner of the room.

Panicking, Arthur looked between Ivan and Francis, waiting for the terrible moment when their eyes would met, for the first time in over ten years. He didn't look forward to the figurative explosion. Looking into his husband's watery blue eyes, he stuttered, "You f-fainted."

Seeming annoyed, Francis frowned. "…That's what I thought." He rubbed at his forehead again, cringing. He was sicker than he thought. His common cold had twisted into something sinister, after the night he spent lying awake in worry for his son, and the chaotic and busy morning he had had.

He hadn't even taken any aspirin!

Francis wasn't surprised that his body had failed him, but he still sighed. "Was I… was I out long?" He was trying to recall exactly where he was, and why he was there. His blurry sight slowly became distinguishable again.

"T-Ten minutes, most," Arthur said, though he hadn't actually counted the minutes. His sense of time, space and reality was temporarily dimmed. Unsteadily, he rose. He eyed Ivan – who knew what he'd do? – and sat back down. As he did, he sighed in realization that Ivan was simply too tall to be hidden. The connection was to happen sooner or later…

An electric shock, cold and wet, rode down Francis' spine when he turned to meet frozen purple eyes. After moments of his heartbeat stalling, it began up again at a frantic pace. His fingers hovered over his lips: he had been about to cover a cough, but he couldn't breathe anymore. Despite his inner horror, his inner turmoil and his sudden remorse, Francis only smiled again. "Ivan," he acknowledged. "…A nightmare come true."

Ivan seemed amused, or at least content with the accusation. "Francis."

Releasing a breath, Arthur relished on the fact that there had been no thrown fists or bombs in the form of words that would explode in thin air. No firm scowls, cuts or bruises, and no one had passed out of sheer emotion.

But the day was still young.

* * *

Elizaveta's heart lurched into her throat. The note on her desk was written in a formal, loopy cursive handwriting. It screamed a happy get-together, but in all reality, it withheld a horror that she'd never felt before. But it didn't make sense. Leaning back in her chair, she stared at the ceiling, and attempted to collect her bearings. But…

She honestly didn't think Gilbert would let that happen.

Gilbert and Matthew, status: unknown. Two of her students (well, one was a former...) went missing on the same day? She witnessed them leave at the same time… had someone taken them both? Impossible. She knew of the fondness Gilbert held for the blonde: if someone had tried to swipe him, Gilbert would have fought to the death for the other's life.

Or maybe… was it that one of Gilbert's dangerous friends had tried to elicit revenge, and thought it best to steal Gilbert's secret love interest?

Elizaveta wildly shook her head. Tears began to spill from her eyes, and she tried to tell herself that she simply had an over-active imagination, and that it was nothing that serious.

It couldn't be…

In a fury of emotion, she snapped forward, and bent over her desk. Elizaveta opened up her e-mail client, and began another message to her husband. This message, she was sure, wouldn't be as pointless as all of the other ones. In a moment, nothing else seemed dire: not her chronic loneliness since he left, not how much she wanted and needed him, nothing.

_Subject: This one's actually important…_

_Gilbert's missing. No, it's not like the prank he pulled last year – he disappeared Friday. He hasn't been seen over the weekend, either, so it's serious. And you know that kid, Matthew, who I told you about? He's gone too. They both vanished. On the same day, and it's expected at the same time. Do you think it's some sort of plot? I don't know what to do or think, but I got a note from Matthew's dad about it… all I know is that I'm going to have to tell the class. This all may seem random and not flow-y, but I can't really think at the moment. …Great, the class is coming in. I'll e-mail you again, I promise. It'll be longer!_

_Love you,_

_Lizzie_

Again, she looked down at the letter in her hands. It was a short and simple note from Matthew's father, explaining the situation. It was as horrifying to read as she was sure it was to write. It only explained of Matthew's disappearance.

How she had known about Gilbert? A simple, two-sentenced e-mail.

_Gilbert Weillschmidt has gone missing. Sequentially, he will not be coming to school._

_Ivan Braginski_

Gilbert wasn't even her student even more. It was simply terrifying that this... Braginski would contact her with the news. It make her shiver._  
_

She didn't know anyone by the name of Ivan, but when she looked into Gilbert's file later, she was surprised to see him listed as '_father_'. She hadn't met Gilbert's father before. He never showed up to Open House, nor did he ever attend the multiple meetings to discuss Gilbert's behavior. He had always been a lingering ghost of a figure that Gilbert was even reluctant to elaborate over.

And now, just the father's words sent shivers down her spine. She couldn't imagine living with the guy.

The kids, like flies, mingled into the classroom, and obediently sat down. They eyed her wearily, as if scared that the tears on her cheeks would harm them in anyway. Only one dared to speak.

"_Sensei_? Is something the matter?" Automatically sitting at the table in the back, Kiku looked extremely lonely with no one sitting before him. He caught the teacher's long gazes to the empty desks as he had walked in. Now, his voice shook slightly with a sense of premeditation. In preparation for physical demise, he rose from his seat and stood on the heels of his shoes. A defaulted smile morphed his lips.

With a huff of submission and a scowl, Elizaveta felt cornered, and she stood. In a matter of mere seconds, she was pacing before her class. The note from Matthew's father was clutched in her hands, and it was crinkled and moist in her grip. She cleared her throat, and ran her fingers through her hair, but nothing soothed her mind or made it disappear. As if to lighten the blow, she began with, "I'm sure you've all been… informed already… but… just in case you haven't…"

Kiku gasped – a sharp intake of its own accord – and then sat back down.

Elizaveta, with misty eyes, looked to him before groaning. "…Matthew went missing over the weekend." She awaited the collected and horrified exclamations. But they didn't come. She widened her eyes. "Matthew," she repeated. "He's gone _missing_."

It took the class a moment, but when they remembered _who exactly Matthew was_, they erupted in muffled unease.

Kiku's head hit the table, and then there was silence.

* * *

The stars were wide and bright, like he'd never seen before. They weren't muffled by street lamps, or affected by dirty pollution; they were simply there, hanging like tragedies and humming warnings. Around them, capturing them like a blanket was the darkness of the night sky. It told a different story: _you're alright_, they told him, _and you'll always be alright_.

Such a pretty contradiction…

As the effects of a fading dream left him, Matthew began to stare up at the sky with a more realistic view.

Stars were just flaming balls of dust.

The sky was ethereal darkness, never ending and never satisfying.

Matthew blinked his eyes. Why could he see the sky…? Where was his ceiling?

And then it hit him, like a ten-pound brick.

He sat upright then, groping around and gaping. Shaking breaths, ones that one would release after a terrifying nightmare, passed his lips and mingled within the silent air. His glasses… where were they?! There was one single light, hanging high above him. It barely touched him. Eventually, after much flailing and half-sobs, he clasped the slabs of glass that were held within wire frames. Matthew slid them on, but he still couldn't make heads or tails of anything.

At that moment, he registered easy and deep breathing from beside him.

His heart stuttered. He wasn't alone. If someone else was with him, then it must be…

Anger, like a sweet and sticky syrup, soiled his mouth. Without thinking about it, he fumbled to open a small drawer. When it granted him access, he managed to pull out a large book that he had known to be in there. He pulled it high above his head, and then slammed it down on the slumbering form beside him. "You idiot!" he screeched, letting his tired and cracking voice split the silence into pieces on the floor.

There were sputtered cusses and wild movements in protest, but Matthew kept smacking. "Idiot! Liar! Cheat! Kidnapper! …I-Idiot!" Each word threw another hit. _Smack, smack, smack_.

"…I'm afraid you've already said that one, Mattie," someone replied.

That only infuriated him further. "Stupid!" he accused, smacking again.

"There you go," Gilbert affirmed, before grabbing the other's wrists. He knew he'd have random bruises popping up later – for a girly thing, Matthew could deliver punches like no one's business. "Now what in hell's name do you think you're doing?" He wanted to rub at his eyes, but his hands were busy restraining a possibly homicidal blonde.

Neither, between walls of darkness, could manage to find the other's eyes. The only way they could determine each other's identity and profiles was through brief touches and held contacts. Gilbert kept his hands firmly planted on both of Matthew's wrists, ensuring a constant flow of conversation.

Despite completely tolerant of the position, Matthew tried to fight the grip out of spite. "Serving out what you deserve, you kidnapper!" The words felt dirty on his tongue, but they kept spewing. His fury knew no bounds. Though, he couldn't manage any profanities. "Where are we?! Wha… wha…" Frantic, he leaned forward a bit, using his captured hands to grip the other's collar. "Don't tell me this is what I think it is," he cried, tears beginning to form.

A grin that wasn't seen tore Gilbert's lips. "Calm yourself, birdie. I have no idea what you're talking about when you're not sane." Despite the words, he knew exactly what was going on. His pride seeped through, and he was enjoying how _physical_ Matthew got when he was excited. "What do you think this is?" He laughed as the other became more flustered.

"You… you… you! You! I'm in your car, aren't I? I'm probably miles from my home, right?! All 'cause of your stupid… p-plan! You knew I didn't want to. But you had to be all convincing and taking advantage of all my faults. Stupid!" He deflated, and his words fell into a normal tone. He bowed his head. "…What even happened, anyway…?" His memory was scattered, and he was missing parts from it.

Gilbert was more than happy to explain. "When we left school, you were complaining that your brother was going to bring you home, so you shouldn't be seen with me. I told you how forgetful your brother was when it came to you, and you told me to shut up." He sighed, still smiling. "I left, and you waited there. I came back half-an-hour later in my car, and you were standing there, looking like a lost little puppy." He mimicked the other's expression – a pouting bottom lip, downcast eyes and dejected hiccups – to the dot, but unfortunately, Matthew couldn't see him. "I asked how you felt about running away now, and with your miserable state of mind, you agreed.

"Your fathers were at work, so you were able to sneak in an' get your things. Speaking of your things…" He let go of Matthew. Gilbert reached behind him, plucking something from the backseat. It was completely white, and easier to see in the dark. "What is this?" He grabbed the arms of the stuffed animal, and moved them up and down.

A bright flash of slight embarrassment, but completely relief flooded Matthew's eyes. "Kumakiro!" he cried, reacting out of reflex and reaching to pull the bear into his arms. When the animal was fully secure in the fort of his arms, and pressed against his chest, Matthew cuddled it.

Gilbert snorted. "You've got a girly stuffed animal?"

"Not girly," Matthew defended, taking in the scent of familiar soap, syrup and _home_.

When the silence overtook them, Gilbert forgot his question and continued, "I just hope you didn't leave some sort of lame-ass note to your parents, 'cause you were in there a long time. But anyway, you came out and I awesomely began the road-trip!"

"…I didn't leave a note. I thought about it, but I knew that they wouldn't care either way…" Extremely disappointed in himself, Matthew frowned against Kumajiro's head. Slowly, he lost himself in recollections and musings. He had _let_ Gilbert take advantage of him. Blinded by the sheer sorrow of being forgotten, he had succumbed to the idea of leaving. He recalled, now, the intense emotion he had felt when he had stood there, alone, in front of the school, again. It was like a merry-go-round on repeat, dizzy and never-ending.

When Gilbert had arrived, he remembered thinking of him as some sort of guardian angel, or saving grace. The promise he had extended… a release from the burden of being forgotten and unwanted… was too soft for him to pass up.

But now that he sat in the passenger seat of some ratty old car, located in who-knows-where, everything came to him in a rush. Matthew realized how foolish he was.

And he didn't entirely mind. It was as if the whole subject of adventure had dragged a drug through his system: it made him aware of the faults, the dangers, and the remorse, but it numbed his mind enough so he didn't really care. He wanted to see where everything would take him, and where Gilbert would take him.

Scratching his fingers against Kumajiro's fur, Matthew softly mumbled, "I should be madder at you for this… but I'm starting to think that maybe… maybe this won't be as bad as I think'll be."

"That's the spirit," Gilbert crooned, his smile wide and admiration evident.

_If only he knew why I did this_, Gilbert thought. _Maybe it'd make him rethink_.

_If only he knew how hard this is for me_, Matthew thought. _Maybe it'd make him proud of me_.

* * *

**A/N**: I know Ludwig's younger, but it doesn't make sense for someone younger than a high-schooler to have a job as a police officer, does it? I didn't think so. :( This is an AU, anyway, so I think it's okay…

Lol, yay, now I've got like four things happening at once in the story. Yippee…

-shudders- I hate getting into the character's heads in the form of straight thoughts, but it seemed a good way to end the chapter. Ew, it's so unlike me that I'm spazzing out about it. Does it ruin the flow of the story, those two ending lines? Tell me honestly. I did them for effect, but they seem out of place. Gwah.

…100+ reviews? Seriously? –faints– I… I didn't even think that that could happen to someone like me. Th-Thank you…

Song for this chapter: _**Pain of Love**_** by Tokio Hotel**. I might change it, 'cause I'm not sure.

I have writer's block, sorry, and I'm trying to work on these other oneshots I have planned. So this'll either be updated quickly, or extremely slowly…

…Hey, I have the feeling that I'm forgetting to tell you guys something, but I'm not sure what it is… some inconsistency or something… If you catch it, tell me, please?

**Preview for next chapter**:

Pat, pat, pat_. The toes of his shoes clicked and clacked against tile. His screams of terror resounded against his skull. His fingers crawled like spiders in his hair, creating red marks against his skin. Over and over, he repeated unintelligible words just to calm his own horrors._

_It was his entire fault, wasn't it? It was! Even his father had screamed at him that it was all his fault._

**R&R~!**


	11. Believe It or Not

_Pat, pat, pat_. The toes of his shoes clicked and clacked against tile. His screams of terror resounded against his skull. His fingers crawled like spiders in his hair, creating red marks against his skin. Over and over, he repeated unintelligible words just to calm his own horrors.

It was his entire fault, wasn't it? It was! Even his father had screamed at him that it was all his fault.

"Shit!" he screamed, picking up his prized football, only to slam it down onto his bed again. "Shit." Restlessly, he looked over his shoulder, as if someone was coming to relieve him of his demons.

Silence. He had no such luck.

Alfred pulled his glasses from his nose, and tossed those onto his bed as well. He didn't need eyesight, since all he could see was his own failure. "Craaaaap," he drawled, clenching his teeth. He paced the length of his bedroom, trying his best not to break down into tears.

Heroes didn't cry.

But heroes also didn't screw up that badly.

"Fuck." It was the worst possible thing his parents could have done for him. While they ran off to the police station, they demanded for him to stay home in case Matthew 'miraculously reappeared'. "Like hell he'll come back." Talking to himself.

Great, now he was talking to himself!

Why'd they have to leave him alone? In a desolate house, filled to the brim with memories that would ultimately drown him? He wasn't even at school! Alfred couldn't stand it. He could curse, he could cry, he could do all the things he wasn't supposed to. And it wouldn't matter.

Alfred took a moment. All he had was himself. His parents had each other to cry on in this time of crisis – but he only had himself and maybe the cold pillows on his bed-sheets.

Matthew usually was the one he turned to in situations like this, but lo and behold: Matthew had caused it all in the first place.

If he hadn't bothered Kiku in the first place, Alfred thought bitterly, then he probably could have saved his brother from whoever had decided to pluck him from his place.

As he collapsed back onto his bed, narrowly missing the football and the spectacles, Alfred became a guilty and silent figure – swearing to himself that revenge would be as slick as glass.

And then, Alfred would shatter that glass into shards.

Yes, it was playing out before him – a tangled fragment of a nightmare that was sealing his conscious. When he focused on revenge, he wasn't being such a crybaby.

"D… Damn it…"

* * *

Elizaveta put her hands up. "Hey, hey!" Her eyebrows pressed together in an attempt to put pieces together. "No one's told you guys?" Her hand lingered over her lips. Was she supposed to tell? Or had it been something expressed in secrecy? She almost cursed, but then she remembered her audience.

"This town's too safe to have kidnappers," someone whined.

"What town are _you_ talking about? There's plenty scum here," someone else spat.

Elizaveta shushed them weakly. "There's no time for stuff like this. Please, the police are probably taking care of it right now…" She had no idea if the police had even been notified. "We still need to continue with our lesson." She took a moment then, to judge her students' reactions. They were all so mixed… "Open your books, please."

"_S_-_Sensei_? I have a question, if you don't… mind."

She looked around the room, trying to find those dark eyes, but she could only see the back of Kiku's head – he had his forehead pressed to his table, and wouldn't look up, even after she requested.

"No… I don't mind. What's the issue?"

Inner conflict raged war in Kiku's mind, and it took a while before he managed to speak. "N… Never mind. I will talk to you later. I'm sorry for the interruption." When he heard his teacher stutter something in attempt to find out what was wrong, he forced his body up and smiled at her. "Please, don't worry."

Clutching the marker in her hand a bit harder than she needed to, Elizaveta nodded jerkily to him. "Ah… alright." And she turned to the board, writing words she couldn't even understand.

* * *

"Why do you have to be so difficult all the time?" Ludwig moved deftly about the halls, shifting around others with ease. He kept his eyes trained forward, but shifting, so he didn't miss anything. He had no idea why he was moving so fast, but he was swallowed in a such a sense of urgency and irritation that he was near drowning.

But his father wasn't helping.

Right at the blonde's heels, using his tall frame and threatening aura to keep people at bay, Ivan frowned, as if he was offended. "Difficult? Me? No, you must be mistaken." He glanced around, trying to familiarize himself with the surroundings. Despite his paternal rights, he had never visited his son's workplace before…

Ludwig finally reached his destination. The door opened easily, which was only a bit odd. Normally it was shut, but as he placed a hand on it, it moved back for him. He rushed into the room, scouring the cabinets for any source of caffeine. Primarily, he was looking for coffee. "It took me five minutes to calm…" The word, he knew, would taste sour when he would let it go, but he had to. "To calm Arthur down after what you said. Did you have to insist that it was his cooking skills that made…?" Another hard one to say. But it was easier than the former. "That made Francis sick?"

Surprisingly, there was a contemplative silence that answered him. "Dad?" Maybe he had gotten lost on the way there. It was unlikely, yes, but not completely impossible. He turned around, and the sight that greeted him instantly threw a headache over his scalp.

Ivan couldn't really suppress his amused chuckle. "Is this yours?" he asked, pointing to the slumbering redhead on the couch, dressed in a police uniform that was covered in wrinkles.

"Feliciano!" Ludwig barked, as loud and demanding as he could.

The response was something dreamily muttered in Italian.

Since they were in the break room, which served as the kitchen and lounge for the station, he knew just what he could do. Annoyed beyond comprehension, Ludwig was malevolent, and went searching into the cabinets again. This time, metal clashed against metal as he pushed things aside.

Finally, he pulled out a long frying pan, and plucked a wooden spoon from a glass container and poised them in position of attack.

Ivan smiled. "You wouldn't…"

Ludwig gave him a harsh glance. "You have no idea how many times he's done this since he's arrived here." The only way to fully wake the boy up was the frying pan-method, and the results were always so entertaining.

He clashed them together, making no harmonious beat or rhythm. It was obnoxious slamming and the spoon nearly cracked with the force.

Feliciano jumped at such a seemingly impossible height, and landed awkwardly on his side. His hands were instantly clasped together in front of him. "Waaaaah," he cried, waggling back and forth. "Don't hurt me! I'll do anything you want, I'll –" When he noticed flaming blue eyes boring into his, he became so frightened that his words were reduced to incoherent whimpers.

Without sympathy, Ludwig ordered, "Next time I see you sleeping on the job, I'll make you run the treadmill instead of lunch."

This elicited a tirade of thought to spur from Feliciano's lips: "Ve! Not the treadmill! It's so boring! You just run and run and run and you go no where! What if there are bad guys?! Running in place won't help! And I need lunch. I eat pasta during lunch. Well, I also eat pasta during my after-lunch-before-dinner snack, but that's –"

"Feliciano!"

"Ve! Y-Yes, Sir Ludwig sir?"

"Back to work!"

The Italian quickly settled himself on both feet again. In a flourish, he patted down his hair and his clothing, trying to look presentable, but only managing to make himself look even more disorderly. He put the side of his hand to his hairline in a salute. "Yes, Sir Ludwig sir!" Even though he had no idea of what type of work he was supposed to be doing, he ran out of the room.

Silence stayed for a while after, until Ivan quoted in obvious entertainment, "'Sir Ludwig sir'?"

Regretful, Ludwig ran his fingers through his hair. "…He doesn't know if he's supposed to say it before or after my name, so he does it both times."

"But it doesn't matter, right?"

"Right. That makes it more embarrassing."

Ivan smirked. "And the salute?"

"No idea where that came from," Ludwig admitted, his frown pressing deeper into his skin. When he turned back to the cupboard, he wasn't looking for coffee anymore, but also for a few aspirins.

Watching, Ivan rolled on his heels, waiting for the questions that were bound to come rolling.

Without turning around, Ludwig said, almost casually, "Are you okay?"

The response was a bit too quick. "Why shouldn't I be?"

Gathering most of his strength, he turned to face his father. "…I mean…" He juggled the coffee mug and medicine bottle between his hands. "Arthur's out there. With Francis."

"Like I thought," Ivan interrupted.

"You… you thought?"

"Yep. Never had a doubt."

Ludwig shook it off, and since the coffee was still preparing itself, he simply swallowed the pills dry. He had not a clue as to the cryptic speak tic his father had acquired. Trying to suppress the quickly multiplying questions he had over Gilbert, and this 'Matthew' character, he just allowed, "…You can leave any time you'd like…"

Ivan's response was instantaneous, and littered with laughter. "Oh, no, I plan on staying. This is too entertaining to pass up…"

* * *

Gilbert groaned loudly, smacking his head against the edge of the steering wheel. The beginning rays of sunlight were just now touching his skin, concocting warmth that he didn't want. His eyes were heavy in their sockets, and every movement was a war. "I swear, Birdie, I'll get you back for keeping me awake all night…"

It hadn't been fair that Matthew had managed to wake up at two in the morning, and peacefully fall back into a slumber.

His Awesomeness hadn't been so lucky. He had tossed and turned, but nothing could return him to that calm peace of mind.

By the time the sun had risen, he had memorized the pattern of his upholstery.

Gilbert narrowed his eyes, running them over Matthew in a slightly malevolent tone. The blonde was laying there, his arms locked around that girly bear (with a weird, foreign name…) like it was his last hope. He found such an imagine of reliance unawesome, so he nudged Matthew's shoulder.

It took a moment, but Matthew blearily groaned, "_Non_, that's not what I'm saying at all…"

He had to rely on most of his strength, but he managed not to laugh out loud. The kid was delirious in his own dreams… Gilbert pushed the other shoulder, saying, "Wake up."

"Don't do this, uh…" was the last thing to fall from Matthew's lips before he had a grip on consciousness. A smile twirled them. "Good morning, Gilbert."

"It's not a good morning," he growled in response. "Since you spazzed last night, it's kept me awake!" He wasn't complaining. He just needed someone to be aware of his turmoil.

Matthew stretched, and sat up. He seemed to be more tranquil with his situation. His small smirk seemed fixed on his features like tape. "Sorry. I was just confused…"

Judging by the noise he emitted, Gilbert didn't sound convinced. "Whatever you say."

Catching back up on reality, Matthew queried, "But seriously, where are we?"

Sitting up in his seat to get a clearer view of his surroundings, Gilbert tried to assess any signs around. They were in a dirt parking lot with a seemingly endless highway stretching perpendicular to them. A solitary building was next to them – if Gilbert reached out, he could touch the old material – and it was some sort of a convenience store. There wasn't any grass for miles – just cracked dirt and dried weeds. The sun, scorching even in its early stage, stared relentlessly down at them.

"I don't see any signs around," Gilbert said lowly, frowning. "But I was thinking…" He plopped back in his seat, stretching a wide grin. "The people in the store here might know."

"They should know," Matthew corrected, trying to sway his own worries.

Gilbert placed his hands behind his head, keeping his eyes straight ahead and his thoughts even straighter. "I could look 'round and see if they're open yet," he suggested. Before his friend could reply, he had already hopped from the car.

"See, Kumakeko?" Matthew said into his bear's ear, pointing its beady eyes to the figure that slowly dissipated. "That's the crazy man I told you about." Heavily, he sighed, and struggled to get out of the filth-ridden car. It didn't seem to have been cleaned in decades. Finally, he slammed the door behind him. He was reluctant to leave Kumajiro inside, alone, where the dirt might actually come alive and soil the bear's white fur, but he swallowed his childish fears and followed the direction Gilbert had taken off in.

The entranceway to the store was a bit flashier than Matthew would have liked, but he didn't stray his eyes too badly and walked in. The cool air that greeted him was more than worth it – he hadn't gauged how hot it had been outside until he realized what comfortable air felt like! He attempted to find Gilbert, and it wasn't too hard, since they seemed to be the only customers inside.

Six large racks of merchandise was horizontally lined in the left corner, and surrounding them were freezers built into the wall. The check-out counter was directly to the left side, facing the right.

Gilbert was standing before the check-out counter, his expression blank but his eyes dancing in annoyance.

Silently, Matthew crept up behind him, listening to what the cashier was saying.

The cashier paused, chewed on his gum and bit more, than blew a large bubble. When it popped, he talked as he gathered it back into his lips. "'Cause I mean, like, working at a nail salon would have been much more fun than this dump, but you deal with whatcha got, right?" What seemed like for the first time during the conversation, he looked up into the potential customer's eyes from where he had been staring into space. He jumped, as if a ghost as suddenly formed before him. "Whoa! Dude, your eyes!" He reached forward, almost touching Gilbert's nose, but the silverette quickly moved back. "Your eyes are like… totally red! That's so rad!" Almost bouncing on his heels, the cashier turned around. "Liet! Liet!" He called, to the back room. "Come here, quick!"

"Feliks, please," someone unseen replied tiredly, "If you got the bubble gum stuck in your hair again, I told you to just –" He stopped when he was behind the counter, his words falling as he realized that there were _customers_ before him. A smile, bright and cheerful, crafted itself onto his mouth. "Hello, how may I help you?"

Feliks interrupted loudly, "Look! Look at him. Look at his eyes." He was leaning forward onto his elbows, staring up into Gilbert's eyes, not seeing the stare he was receiving.

Embarrassed and slightly ashamed, Toris lightly swatted the other's head. "It's not polite to do things like that," he chastised, trying to catch any dignity they had.

Playfully ignoring him, Feliks popped another bubble before questioning, "Are they just contacts? 'Cause if they are, they look, like, super real."

Gilbert waited for another outburst. He hadn't gotten to say a word since he had opened the door. He had been given a long rant that seemed basically the blonde's life-story. He had to make sure that he would finally be allowed to speak before he dared answering. "…They're real."

"No way!" Felik's smile grew like flowers. "That's, like, totally awesome, dude."

Attempting, again, to turn the conversation onto a path that would be more beneficial, Toris asked for the second time, "How may I help you?"

Matthew noticed how the brunette said 'I'. He figured the blonde was no help. It wasn't surprising.

Still reluctant, Gilbert harshly explained, "We'd just like to know where we are and where we can go to leave…"

The ones behind the desk simultaneously quirked their eyebrows and quoted, "'We'?"

Gilbert stared evenly back at them, his own confused expression on his face. A moment passed. "Yeah, 'we'," he confirmed. "Me and Mattie-boy here." He turned a bit, and motioned with an outturned thumb to the boy behind him.

A blush delicately painted across his face, Matthew timidly waved.

Another beat of time went by, and Toris got the hit first. "OH! Oh, oh, I'm so sorry, sir," he chimed, respectfully regretful.

Feliks was still staring blankly, his eyebrows scrunched together and his eyes squinted. It took him a little while longer. When he caught on, he jumped from his seat. "Wh-What are you," he asked, "like, super-human?!" He was deeply disturbed over the fact that one boy could not be there one minute, and then reappear the next.

"No," Matthew said, frowning.

Not amused, Gilbert growled, "About those instructions?"

Again, Toris apologized. "Oh, ah, this is Universe road," he informed the strangers, weary in his voice. "If you keep going down south…" He pointed behind him. "…down that road, then eventually you'll get to the main town we're connected to, it's called Hetalian."

Feliks, recovering from the initial shock, caught their expressions and explained, "Yeah, I know. Totally weird names. I, like, wanted them to change it to Pink Road, and, like, Pony Town but no one listens to me."

Toris twitched his lips into a small smile, as if trying to apologize for his co-worker's state of mind. There wasn't any way to change it, though he'd tried and tried and tried...

* * *

**A/N**: I've been gone for over a month, with no updates or one-shots at all, I know. I was busy, but I actually have no excuse that I feel like getting into.

But I did introduce new characters, so that helps, right?

-is shot-

Guess not.

News? Tomorrow's my birthday… heehee, try and guess how old I'm turning~! (I'm a May Flower Baby, that's right! =D) I might let you request a fic or something if you get my age correct… xD

Oh well… um, I actually-don't-really have any more songs in mind, so the selections from now on might be… unsatisfactory. If anyone has any other suggestions, please shoot them my way. **The Song for this Chapter is: **_**Believe It or Not**_** by Nickelback,** since everyone's fighting against themselves at this point. (Especially Alfred…)

**Preview for next chapter**:

_Amusement danced in the air following the beat of the music and dancing around them. The sun that beat down was shielded from them by a dark umbrella over their heads that was attached to the table they were sitting at. Calmly, their own personal silence carried on, and blushing, Roderich looked down and began to distractedly stir his drink._

_A laugh, restricted and firm, finally presented itself. "…I can't believe you actually told your wife you were on a business trip." The voice was laced with said amusement, with only a dash of disbelief._

_He looked up. "You're making this sound all wrong," he accused, lightly. "We are doing work, you know. And it has to do with the business."_

_Heavily, a sigh responded to him. It sounded a bit remorseful. "But you knew we'd end up doing this again, didn't you?"_

_The party continued on around them, loud and boisterous._

_Roderich rubbed at his temples and a low groan slipped over his moist lips. "…Yes," he admitted solemnly, feeling so worthless at the moment. "I have to say that I did."_

**R&R~!**


	12. Let This Go

Kiku regretted saying anything. He really did. He should have just kept his mouth shut, and then he wouldn't have to deal with the worried glances his teacher turned on him all during class. Trying to distract himself, he wrote the notes down in his neatest handwriting, and then translated them all into Japanese in the last fifteen minutes of class (when they were supposed to be reading). Despite that, his mind was a whirlwind of activity.

He tried his best to slip past everyone when the bell rang – for once, he actually pushed past a kid or too, but he didn't forget to apologize – though he never made it to the door.

"Kiku," Elizaveta said, sly enough that her voice froze him, "you wanted to talk?"

The trees outside of the window shook with a sudden wind, and Kiku felt the same sensation wash over him. "…It wasn't all that important," he tried to dismiss it as.

"Kiku."

Kiku looked behind him once – at that free hallway – before taking a timid step forward. "…It's really… not important," he said again. Light from that same hallway cast itself casually over his shoulders, almost like he was in a spotlight.

Elizaveta tapped the desk in front of her. "Come on." She pulled around another desk, so when she sat, she could sit face-to-face with her student. "If you don't, I won't share the photos of… oh, I won't even tell you who they are if you don't sit."

With a wince, Kiku leveled a very polite stare. He moved forward – slowly, giving Elizaveta time to change her mind – and sat down as if every move hurt him. His bag dropped heavily to the ground, and it was the only noise for a while.

"So?"

Kiku slowly tried to explain his inner musings. "…I feel as if I could have stopped Matthew-san's disappearance, _sensei_."

"You're crazy."

He looked away from her, focusing on the color of the wood. "The afternoon… that… you know… well, my friend Alfred-san – who is also Matthew-san's twin brother – had stopped to talk to me in the hallway. We were there for a while, and I feel as if I hadn't distracted him, _he_ might have been able to prevent something."

Elizaveta felt a sense of guilt rise in her mind. Oh, she had seen that whole encounter. But she knew for a fact that it hadn't been Kiku's fault. That Alfred boy simply couldn't mind his own business and wasted Kiku's time. But how could she show that to Kiku without revealing that she had, in fact, witness the exchange?

She cleared her throat – a bit nervously – and drew circles with her finger against the desk. "…How are you so sure that this… Alfred would have been able to do something?"

"Alfred-san was supposed to drive Matthew-san home, if I'm not mistaken."

_Oh_, Elizaveta thought. Despite this new information, she was still sure it wasn't Kiku's fault. She tried, "Kiku, I just think you're over-thinking this. I'm not sure what happened could have been prevented…" In her mind, Gilbert was still a resounding guilty party.

"But what if –"

"See, that's exactly your problem." Elizaveta flashed a knowing smirk. "You're making up all these situations that could have happened in your head. A little too much fan-fiction, me thinks." She winked.

Kiku blushed.

"Now, let's get off of this subject," she said airily. "How are you and your Greek love-life?" The more she tried to make the sentence sound innocent, the more it didn't. She ended up in giggles. To tell the truth, she didn't know Heracles on a personal or academic level. (The fact that she didn't have him as a student was the main reason Kiku had felt safe in spilling the beans.) But she still couldn't help but be interested. And the one time Kiku had managed to introduce Heracles to her, she was instantly a bit more interested. The two of them looked simply too perfect for one another.

His blush increased. "That's – that's irrelevant," he said.

"I was starting a _new topic_! Nothing's irrelevant in a new topic!" She laughed, trying to ease his embarrassment. It was all in good fun. "So seriously. Spill! No one – not even someone as reserved as you – could have kept the secret for _this long_! It's just not possible. And didn't you say you were going to tell him soon…?"

Flashes of that afternoon came back to him, how Alfred knew…

"I – I kept the secret," he said calmly, a sort of helplessness coming over his disposition, "but someone actually found out."

Oh yeah, she remembered: that annoying Alfred. But she had to pretend that she didn't know… "Wait, what?" Her eyebrows rose. "You're not serious!"

He nodded, mournfully. "I have no idea how they figured it out."

Elizaveta hadn't a clue either.

"But…" He hadn't actually been planning on telling this part, but it was due. "That's what Alfred-san had stopped to… well, _confront_ me about. And… Heracles-san had been there…"

"Don't tell me that… that Alfred _told_…?" She let the sentiment hang.

"No, no. Alfred-san said he had a big secret to tell, and Heracles-san said he didn't want my secrets spilled if I didn't want them spilled." A small smile tugged at his lips, but he refused to meet her eyes.

Elizaveta grinned. "Aw. How adorable!"

"I-I…" But Kiku gave up while he was still ahead. He couldn't diffuse her statement – he had found it rather… _appealing_ (such would be the word he'd use) as well at Heracles's determination at keeping his secret.

She grinned for a bit more seconds, simply to herself. By bringing up that sleepy Greek, she had managed to get Kiku's mind off of Matthew. She had to make a note of that for later. "You're lucky you have someone to protect you like that." She thought wistfully of her special someone. "…Roderich tries to act like a man, but it's nothing more than hilarious."

Kiku smiled lightly. "I would imagine so."

He leaned back a bit – the most uncomfortable part was over – and planned on asking a question, but something else caught his eye. From the sheer notion of that thing being what he thought it was, he sat up straight again with his eyes wide and his face flushed. "H – Heracles-san? Is that you?" he asked, voice shaking, watching the doorway and the mop of messy hair.

Silence settled heavily, and Kiku was sure his heart was going to break his chest. It thudded so painfully that he was near tears.

Elizaveta felt a sensation in her heart as well – but hers simply skipped before going neutral. She leaned forward as well, trying to see what Kiku did.

"…I wasn't…" Heracles began, caught, "I wasn't trying to… you know, _eavesdrop_… I just…" He scratched his head, finding tangles from math class's slumber. He started untangling them while he stepped into easy view. His eyes were on the ceiling.

Elizaveta was torn. With the completely horrified expression Kiku wore, and the embarrassed emotion Heracles put on display, she wasn't sure whether to approach the subject straight on or pretend it hadn't happened…

Kiku gulped before biting the bullet, "How… how long have you been s-standing there?"

It was his turn to blush. "Since – well, since the 'Greek love life'." He rubbed at his neck – he couldn't seem to still his hands! – since it was stiff from that nap.

Elizaveta's first instinct was to choke out a laugh – it was all too ironically inconvenient – but she simply winced. She had been the one to bring up the subject, after all. It was… her fault, she figured. At the surprisingly hurt gaze that Kiku gave her, she mouthed an apology.

* * *

"Hetalian…" Gilbert mused, "that's a pretty odd name. Was it named after some big hero of the town, or somethin'?"

Toris thought for a moment. "Not that I know of, sir." When he glanced over, it was very obvious that the potential customers were younger than him. Much younger. He internally winced, feeling old, but he figured he might as well keep calling them sirs. If he stopped, they might be less likely to buy something… for once…

"Hetalian…" He tasted it again. Hetalian. It sounded nothing like the city he had planned on arriving in, but his heart instantly became fond of it. Hetalian. He smiled just a bit. "You guys got anything interesting in this Hetalian?"

Feliks blew a large bubble before exclaiming, "Well, like, of course. I wouldn't live there if it didn't." He chewed, his eyes cast off somewhere far away. "Let's see. There's a bunch of clubs and bars and stuff… they're pretty cool, especially in the summer. But it's not summer yet, so it's not as cool as it gets. Trust me."

Toris looked dubious.

"And, um… a bunch of gangs and stuff too. It gets dangerous, but it's really, like, an exciting kind of dangerous. As long as you don't get on anyone's bad side, they don't hurt ya… of course, they don't like ya walking near them on the sidewalk. I learned that the hard way…" Feliks frowned before making another bubble.

Matthew looked terrified.

Feliks brightened up and added, "And there's such a cool foreign exchange program goin' round in that town! They have people from, like, everywhere! It's so awesome. That's how Liet and I got here." He smiled proudly. "And all of 'em at least know broken English, so don't worry…" He faded off into space again, a bubble popping against his nose. He frowned and began to pick the gum from his face.

Toris looked tiredly at Feliks. "You haven't been to any of those clubs..." he said, wonderingly.

At the same time, Matthew prodded Gilbert's shoulder. His eyes were wide. "He said that there are gangs…!"

Feliks scowled. "Of course I've been to clubs…" And he left it there, crossing his eyes as he tried to get a stubborn piece from his nose.

Toris blinked.

Gilbert's smile stole everyone's attention. "But there's a foreign exchange thing," he said excitedly, to Matthew, but everyone heard. "Someone from Germany might be there!"

Matthew withered. "But the gangs…" In a desperate attempt – he knew the determined look coming over Gilbert's face – he used his eyes to try and spot where Gilbert had put the car keys… if he took them, they wouldn't go to that gang-ridden place…

Gilbert gave both Toris and Feliks equally grateful looks. "Thanks for the info. If you need us, we'll be in Hetalian!" He was near throwing his hand up for effect, but he didn't.

Bored, Feliks wandered off into the back storage area to find a magazine.

With a sudden flash in his eyes, Toris politely stuttered, "You – you only needed directions? Didn't need to… buy anything?"

Despite himself, Matthew caught onto Toris's underlying meaning. He gave a small smile. "Oh, no. Gilbert's just in a rush. I was sort of in the mood for a snack myself…" He looked to Gilbert in the corner of his eye, daring him to contradict him so publicly.

Gilbert rolled his eyes, on the verge of saying something cynical, but he simply exhaled the words in a heavy sigh.

Toris's smile was the biggest one yet. "Thank you. Let me know if –"

A familiar-sounding scream – high-pitched and long – interrupted him to the grandest scale.

Responding as if he had been electrocuted, Toris shuddered. His mouth opened, and at first, he could only manage a noise. But then he caught sense of fast-paced reality and gasped, "Feliks!" He turned around, and ran into the back.

Toris's petrified expression lingered in his mind. Matthew's heart was staggering in its rhythm. Without knowing but with an abrupt fright, Matthew grabbed Gilbert's sleeve, and he watched the open doorway in anticipation.

Seconds ticked by. Gilbert only seemed to become worried when he heard sobbing.

With his arm around Felik's waist, Toris pulled the bawling form back to the front counter. Though his expression was cross, it obviously had a bit of relief. "Feliks – Feliks is just a bit dramatic. Once again, he blew a bubble too big, and it caught his hair."

"My haaaaaaaaaair," Feliks drawled through wails.

Matthew relaxed, his hand falling. "Oh. Well, he definitely gave me a scare!"

"Tell me about it," Toris said under his breath, trying to pull the gum harmlessly from both Felik's face and head. "Um, you guys can get whatever you needed," he reminded Matthew and Gilbert, "while I tend to this drama queen…"

Feliks sniffed. "My hair," he said again, resigned.

Gilbert nodded a bit too enthusiastically to the suggestion. "Come on, Matt." He walked toward the shelves, Matthew at his heels.

Far out of hearing range, Gilbert pretended to look over different types of potato chips as he said, "Don't you think there's something odd 'bout those two?"

"…'Odd' isn't really the word I'd use, but I guess you're right," Matthew agreed, albeit reluctantly. He looked at the shelves with interest. He was really in the mood for pancakes, but he knew that it wouldn't be sensible. Those didn't work well on the road… He grabbed a packet of toaster pastries and a small bottle of milk before looking to Gilbert. "Why do you ask?"

Gilbert shook his head. "…Dun really know." He glanced at the other. "You ready, then? With your 'snack'?"

"You should be hungry too," Matthew defended.

Gilbert lowly replied, "But I'm not wasting my money on this cheap stuff. The big things are what counts."

Matthew didn't agree, but all thoughts of argument vanished when another scream (shriek, really) rang out, and words quickly filled the air:

"Feliks, I'm sorry, but you messed up badly this time. I have to cut it."

"B-B-But you said you liked my hair!"

A sigh. "I love your hair. I'll only cut a little bit, the parts with the gum, okay? Then you can… style it anyway you want. It's the only way to get the gum out."

"I…"

"…Just go in the back, okay, and think about it? I have those customers to deal with…"

The conversation ended as Feliks followed Toris's instructions. Matthew smiled sadly. Poor Feliks… but he walked back up to the counter and put his makeshift breakfast down.

"I'm sorry about him," Toris said, sincerely apologetic, as he rang the items up. "He's just… I don't even know. He says he's 'a celebrity stuck in a low life', or something, but I just think he's different."

Gilbert didn't want to hear more of Felik's life.

Matthew laughed. He added his own two cents, "I know someone who says almost the exact same thing." His smile stuck as he paid, and as he waved good-bye. "Good luck with him!"

Toris smirked. "Thank you." But he wasn't sure any amount of luck would help him with what he had to do.

* * *

Amusement danced in the air following the beat of the music and dancing around them. The sun that shone down was shielded from them by a dark umbrella over their heads. The umbrella was attached to the table they were sitting at. Calmly, their own personal silence carried on, and blushing, Roderich looked down and began to distractedly stir his drink.

A laugh, restricted and firm, finally presented itself. "…I can't believe you actually told your wife you were on a business trip." The voice was laced with said amusement, with only a dash of disbelief.

He looked up. "You're making this sound all wrong," he accused, lightly. "We are doing work, you know. And it has to do with the business."

Heavily, a sigh responded to him. It sounded a bit remorseful. "But you knew we'd end up doing this again, didn't you?"

The party continued on around them, loud and boisterous.

Roderich rubbed at his temples and a low groan slipped over his moist lips. "…Yes," he admitted solemnly, feeling so worthless at the moment. "I have to say that I did." He looked sorrowfully down at the bag beside his chair. His laptop was in it, and that document was waiting for him, incomplete… "We never work well together. Can't the boss tell that by the way we barely turn in the reports on time?"

He frowned. "No, 'cause you're always such a suck-up and tell him exactly what he wants to hear."

"Oh, shut it," Roderich snapped, irritable; though he couldn't deny it. "I hate this… We try to do work, then realize we're too stressed… and end up at a club, drinking away woes." He took a long swig from his glass to present his point.

Looking down at his own drink, he scrunched up his nose and said, "This looks expensive…"

"Vash. I'll pay for it. Just drink it, and try to think of how in the world we're going to finish this project, alright?"

* * *

**A/N**: When I started writing this story, I wanted it to be really… well, dimensional – a lot going on at the same time, with different people and situations. (Though this chapter seemed to skip around the times… hm.) N-Needless to say, I got my wish. ;~;

That's why it took me a while to update. I had to sort it all out. (And then get over a writer's block.) :P

…I really want to keep Toris and Feliks in this, and (curse it all) I think my mind's close to giving them a sub-plot, even though they're probably one of the minor characters. (Should I…?)

I brought Vash and Roderich in for a reason… so ha ha ha, you have no idea…

**Song for this chapter**: _**Let This Go**_** by Paramore**, solely for Kiku. I'm sorry, buddy.

**Preview for next chapter**:

_They were alone. They could talk openly… Francis shrugged, and said, "We talked so badly about Gilbert's father the past few months and… bam! He comes out of nowhere."_

"_Don't be stupid," Arthur said, clenching his hands on his arms after he crossed them._

"_I mean – think about it," Francis went on. "It's almost… ironic. Maybe this grudge we've held against him will finally have the chance to be… well, lifted!" He sunk back into the chair, the thought simply amusing. "Wouldn't that be amazing…?"_


	13. Let Go

"I – um." Kiku was lost. He had no way of defending himself. What was he supposed to say? That he was enamored with _another_ Greek? He was beginning to feel light-headed, despite the fact that he remained sitting.

"Wasn't eavesdropping," Heracles said again. "You were taking a little longer than normal to meet me," he explained, "and I thought maybe Alfred had gotten to you again. I couldn't risk it, so I came down here…" He knew he was making it worse. Every word he spoke seemed to be a separate jab to Kiku – his eyes were simply screaming.

Elizaveta was near to exploding into teacher mode and disciplining Heracles on being in school during afterschool hours. But that argument was weak, and it would be obvious that she was trying to dilute everything. But someone did have to take charge, so she rose from her seat. She decided… to play things out like a love story. "You – what's your name?" She pointed demandingly at the brunette.

"Um – Heracles," said Heracles.

Kiku looked at his teacher uncertainly, his lips parted.

"Heracles. Since you've been handed a love proposal, you must respond."

"_Oh, kami-sama_," Kiku said in a shaky breath, of course in Japanese – the English language seemed to be getting him into trouble as of late. He sank deeper into his seat, his elbows instantly on the desk and both of his hands parting his dark hair. Nothing could hide the blush coming over his face.

"I'm sorry, Kiku," Elizaveta said, her determination overshadowing her regret, "but if I leave you two to stumble to the conclusion I won't be alive to see it." Translation: they'd take just too darn long.

With her finger still pointing resolutely at the sleepyhead, the world seemed to spin to a stop. No one moved – they were barely breathing at that moment. Colors figuratively blurred and forms became indescribable – and then, it all spun fast and dizzy when Heracles quietly mumbled,

"…The feeling is mutual…"

First, it was so soft that no one – not even the speaker – heard it clearly. Then each of them replayed the syllables in their minds and all realized what exactly had been said.

Elizaveta's hand fell to her side, and her smile was lopsided when it spread. And she glanced, from the corner of her eye, to her polite little student.

Kiku hadn't moved – but boy, it was obvious he had heard. His eyes were saucers.

So Elizaveta laughed, waiting. Though slightly unrealistic, in her mind she imagined Kiku jumping up and running into Heracles's arms… flowers would suddenly blossom out of nowhere… romantic music would start to play, and each would spill their confessions more sweetly...

But Kiku was as stated previously – her polite little student. When he finally collected his bearings, he cleared his throat and unsteadily rose from his seat. He gave a slight bow in Heracles's direction and said, "I'm very flattered… and quite relieved." He picked up his bag, then walked (not ran, darn it) to Heracles and smiled kindly. "We should be leaving, shouldn't we?"

And Heracles smiled back to him and admitted, "Yeah…"

Under her breath, Elizaveta was chanting, "Kisshim kisshim kisshim kisshim…!"

Kiku, though his smile was still firm, glared at her weakly from over his shoulder, and Heracles just laughed.

Elizaveta, caught, waved a hand. "Oh, fine. Just go ahead and leave if there isn't going to be a show…"

Kiku nodded, though he had flushed at the comment, and with Heracles by his side, they began leaving.

Elizaveta sighed. She knew that they wouldn't make a big deal of their love confessions – they'd simply continue on as normal. But – rather just to annoy Kiku or as a genuine inquiry – Elizaveta managed to catch Kiku by the shoulder and whisper, "I expect pictures."

His smile grew almost impossibly – it had to be Kiku's widest grin yet. He respectively shrugged her hand off and made her a deal: "When you give me those pictures you promised earlier, I'll _think_ about it."

With a quirk to her lips, Elizaveta stood there alone in the dim classroom, the crazy notion of true love on her mind.

* * *

Francis sighed heavily, the breath cold on his wet lips. "I suppose we brought this on ourselves, then," he suggested. His fingers were laced with the ones on his opposite hand, and they rested on his lap. He was still in the same chair in Officer Ludwig's office, and hadn't moved since his fainting spell.

Arthur, on the other hand, had shifted from many different positions, and was currently standing by the far wall. He stared blankly out of the window, but Francis's statement spurred him into a furious demand of, "What the hell does that mean?"

They were alone. They could talk openly… Francis shrugged, and said, "We talked so badly about Gilbert's father the past few months and… bam! He comes out of nowhere."

"Don't be stupid," Arthur said, clenching his hands on his arms after he crossed them.

"I mean – think about it," Francis went on. "It's almost… ironic. Maybe this grudge we've held against him will finally have the chance to be… well, lifted!" He sunk back into the chair, the thought simply amusing. "Wouldn't that be amazing…?"

"Why would that be amazing?" His voice was as dry as sandpaper, and affected Francis just like it.

He frowned, thinking about it before saying, "…Well, we all used to be such good friends… wouldn't you like that? To actually have friends again?" He laughed. Since becoming a father, his social life had notably dwindled. Though his two bundles of joy greatly made up for it, he was still missing his old life, the gregarious one he was.

"We don't need to be friends with the like of him," Arthur dismissed.

"See? That's the thing. You aren't giving him a chance." Francis wasn't sure why he had suddenly become so open to the idea of accepting Ivan back into their life… it had just seemed like a sign that both of their sons happened to be connected… and he had a change of mind.

Or maybe it was just because his hate for Ivan was very transparent – it had just been a dispute, one they could have resolved over time, but instead they had let it fester… and, when Francis thought about it, Arthur seemed to have a deeper hate for the Russian than he did. Had something else happened that he wasn't aware of?

"Hey, Artie," Francis said, using a wistful nickname and interrupting the rant his husband had gone into when told he wasn't giving Ivan a chance. "Are you sure there's not anything else going on here I'm not aware of?"

And there it was – Arthur's opportunity to come clean, release his inner demons and finally _tell him_. But of course, the thought of releasing such an old secret came with the nervous and fast-paced beating of his heart, and suddenly his chest seemed so hollow, as if preparing to be free of such a weight. He closed his eyes for a moment, ready, but then traitorous thoughts overcame him.

His eyes shot open.

How in the world would Francis take it? He couldn't be a nice and understanding gentleman all the time…

Arthur turned guilty eyes to his husband, processing his waiting gaze, and parted his lips.

But the door opened.

"Ve, is Ludwig here?" asked a cheery voice, as that young face peered through the doorway.

"Obviously not," Arthur spat, irritation settling on his face.

"Oh, Arthur," Francis said, moving to stand, his eyes twinkling with new-found life. "Give 'im a break! He's so cute, don't be mean to him." He leaned against the doorway, not forgetting his faint from earlier. "What was your name again?"

"Feliciano," Feliciano said with a grin.

"Such a cutie," Francis continued, lightly pinching the other's cheek. But the age difference was obvious between them – so flirting was morally out of the question. "I'm Francis – but you can call me Big Brother Francis, if you'd like!" And he grinned.

Feliciano was extremely keen to the suggestion. "Ve, okay, Big Brother Francis!"

"Cutie!" Francis squealed again.

So Arthur turned his gaze out of the window, that weight settling back on his chest once more.

* * *

After Toris had finished cutting his friend's hair – luckily, the gum had only caught on the end of the blonde strands, so it simply looked like Feliks had gotten a trim – he lazily ran his fingers through it. His mind was going wild, and his eyes narrowed in accordance to his thoughts. Only by physically occupying himself was he able to contain everything – so there he remained, leaning over the counter, petting that lovely blonde hair and trying not to speak.

Feliks was sucking on a lollipop, one Toris had grudgingly given him as a gift for his self-proclaimed 'trauma' of getting his hair cut before his monthly visit to the salon. He sat in Toris's regular stool behind the counter, watching the other with cold eyes. For a while, it plainly continued like that – but finally, the silence cut into him. He broke through Toris's revere with a sharp, "You think that was him, right? I'm not the only one, that like, thinks that?"

Despite himself, Toris winced at Felik's innate ability to guess his thoughts. "It'd… it'd be too much of a coincidence for it to be."

"You're kidding," Feliks said, his tone still somber and dead. "They basically had, like, the same hair."

Toris glared. "That boy's an albino. The pale hair's beyond his control. His father could have dark hair for all we know. No way."

Feliks wanted to comment about those eyes again – they were just so awesome – but he realized that that would be getting off topic. "Coooome on, Liet, be serious," he whined, dropping his cold façade when his friend just wasn't getting it.

"I am. You're the one being ridiculous," Toris said, forgetting the fact that everything Feliks had said mirrored his own thoughts.

Pouting, Feliks licked at his candy before mumbling, "We really should have gotten their names…"

"What difference would that have made?" Toris asked, standing up fully. His fingers left Feliks's head. "Even if his name was Gilbert, it could always still be a coincidence."

"No it wouldn't," Feliks cried, frowning with his eyebrows creased. "It woulda been _him_! It woulda been _his_ child!"

Quickly, Toris turned on his heel and walked toward the shelves. He began reorganizing everything, even though most of it was still perfectly ordered. "And what good would that have done?" Now, his voice took on a chilly tone, but it wasn't an act as Feliks's had been.

"You know, we could've like, asked him where his dad was and like, totally gotten revenge."

Again, Toris glared at him. "Revenge wouldn't change anything."

"Ugh! You're so, like, dumb sometimes, you know?" Feliks wailed, actually jumping from the stool. He placed the lollipop in his mouth as he climbed over the counter (not using the door two feet away). As he pulled the candy back from his lips, he twirled it aimlessly between his fingers. He strolled over to his friend."It so would." Toris was frozen, his hands lingering over two different types of chips. Feliks took advantage of that, and leaned right up against his side. "Lieeeet, you need _revenge_!"

"No," Toris said. "That's morally incorrect. I'd be stooping to his level, or whatever they say."

"Lieeeeeet," Feliks drawled again, longer and more desperately.

"Feliks, stop," Toris exclaimed harshly, a darkness coming over his face that Feliks hadn't seen for so long.

Feliks blinked dumbly at him, his candy hanging forgotten between his fingers and lips.

"We'll never see that boy again, so it doesn't even matter. You're obsessing over nothing." Once more, he turned away from his co-worker, mumbling something weak about having things to do in the back.

When the backdoor slammed shut, Feliks winced, his lollipop clicking against his front teeth. And then he rolled it against his tongue, his eyebrows furrowed angrily as thoughts ran, like evil pink ponies, through his mind.

* * *

"So who were you talking about?" Gilbert asked, as they left the store and the heat hit them full-on. He squinted a bit against the sun, and also pressed the side of his hand horizontally to his eyebrows. It served as a sort of hat to shield his eyes from the sun.

"What do you mean?" Matthew opened the bottle of milk (the pastries were in his pocket) and sipped at it – just being somewhere relatively heated made him thirsty. He had always preferred the cold weather, anyway…

"That…" He struggled to remember the exact phrase as they walked to the car. "The 'celebrity stuck in a low life' thing. You said you knew someone who said that."

Matthew choked a bit, but managed to swallow his beverage. His throat began to throb in pain from the irritation, but he simply put a hand to his neck. "Um," he said intelligently.

The car was a few feet away, waves of heat radiating on top of it. They had stopped walking, for Matthew had come to a mind block and when Gilbert realized his reluctance, he was instantly a thousand times more interested.

"Come on, tell me! Who is it?" He grinned goofily, as if that heightened Matthew's trust in him.

Matthew glanced toward the other. "Why do you want to know so badly?"

"Only 'cause you won't tell me."

To Matthew, that was a perfect example of Gilbert's insane logic. "Well," he said, realizing he wouldn't get a moment of peace until he spilled, "you see, my –" But suddenly he stopped, his eyes catching onto something moving from behind the building. He nudged his friend, bringing the other's attention to it. "Isn't that –?"

"The cashier," Gilbert finished definitely. "What's he doing outside, leavin' that incompetent blonde to the front counter?"

"Hush," Matthew said before taking a closer look at the brunette – he was pacing behind the building, so his profile was only visible every few moments, but it was clear that his fingers were fisted in his hair. He mused to Gilbert, "Do you think something happened?"

"I wouldn't put it past them," Gilbert replied. "They're like a married couple." But then he shook his head, remembering their destination. "Come on, we need to get on the road. I wanna see Hetalian!" And he strolled to his car. He pulled his keys from his pocket and placed them in the lock before realizing the lack of presence beside him. "Matt?" He looked around, before seeing the blonde running toward the cashier. "Aw, hell," he cursed, lightly punching the top of the car. Leave it to Matt to want to solve even a stranger's lowly problems…

Matthew, when closer to the building, slowed to a light walk. He didn't want to startle the other. "Excuse me – sir?" he asked, turning his head around the corner, to see the cashier sitting on a few boxes...

...boxes that he promptly fell off of when hearing someone's voice.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Matthew apologized, running over and helping the other to his feet. His plan on not scaring him had failed miserably. "Are you okay?" When the cashier looked at him, Matthew first saw the wild eyes. He was taken aback, and a slight skip took over his heart.

But Toris's tone was polite and reserved, just like it had been in the store, and his smile was pleasant. "I'm fine, thank you. Did you need something else?" His words were a bit too fast, a bit too irrelevant.

Matthew took a moment to simply stare, his comprehending purple eyes shining. "I – I just… no; I don't need anything. I just wanted to know if something had happened… you seem rather… well, stressed." Then, when the brunette seemed unwilling to talk, he theorized, "Did, um – was it Feliks? Was that his name? Did he… do something?"

Toris took the bait. "Yes, yes; that's it. Feliks is rather upset about getting his hair cut, and doesn't want me around him while he calms down. That's what happened."

Again, Matthew just stared. He realized how weird the whole situation was – normally he wasn't outgoing enough to approach someone he barely knew and inquire about their personal life… usually people were asking questions of him. So, mindful, he asked, "Is there anything I can do to help?" It seemed the perfect thing to offer.

Inner conflict raged throughout Toris's eyes, and he looked fully at the younger. One hand still remained clasped against his scalp. And then, after a gulp, he quietly articulated, "No, no; thank you, though… um, what was your name again?" His heart pounded. He was asking _the_ question… Feliks would be so proud, even if he felt so dirty doing so.

He smiled. "Matthew. And you're Liet, right?"

Toris shook his head, barely paying attention to the words that came from his mouth. He was on a roll. "No. That's just what Feliks calls me. My name's Toris."

"Oh. Nice to meet you," he replied pleasantly, while in his mind, he was trying to connect 'Liet' and 'Toris' in someway.

Out of his character, Toris didn't return the greeting and simply asked, "And your friend, what was his name?"

Matthew said, "Oh, you mean Gilbert?"

Everything came to a halt. All color drained from his face. Suddenly, the heat was so overpowering. He had to press a hand to the building so he wouldn't topple over. "Y-Yes, I mean him," he choked needlessly, his words as garbled as his mind.

"Sir, are you okay?" he asked, suddenly worried at the change that had came over the cashier.

Toris wiped sweat from his forehead. "It's – It's just the heat," he explained, not needing Matthew's prompting to create that lie.

He suggested, "You should go inside. Surely Feliks isn't mad at you anymore?" Matthew was now more than worried. Toris's eyes had gone completely blank, and his knees quivered. He feared some sort of heat stroke, though he had no idea what the symptoms of it were. "Here," he offered, putting his hand on the other's shoulder, "I'll help you…" But his fingers stilled at the other's voice.

"N-No, please don't," Toris groaned, before clearing his throat free of the pitiful tone. He moved away from the cool touch. "Thank you, though." He moved carefully back to the door. "Please enjoy your journey." And with that, he disappeared into the building.

The door shut quietly, and Matthew got the feeling that he was being thanked for more than one thing.

* * *

**A/N**: Things just got so more complicated, ha ha. xD I only had an idea for Feliks at first – just a small one that wouldn't really be plot-changing, but then that scene between Toris and Feliks flowed from my fingers and I'm like, "…Oh, wow; this just got interesting." xD

Man, Matthew's so ignorant… he's basically fueling the whole plot even though he has no idea what's happening…

And both Elizaveta and Feliks, to me, seemed so angsty at the conclusion of their sections... especially Feliks; since he's supposed to be...

Heracles and Kiku got their happy ending. 3 By the way, if anyone knows the translation of "Oh, my God" in Japanese, please tell me – I got so many mixed results from online translators. P:

This story just got a bit longer overall, too. Matthew and Gilbert were supposed to be on the road by now – but that didn't work out so well. This is the reason why I normally don't like planning my stories. xD" But that's fine – I can make it in the next chapter…

**Song for this chapter**: _**Let Go**_** by Frou Frou**… don't know why. xD The title's so similar to the last one, though!

**Preview for the next chapter**:

_Alfred had felt a sort of hostility recently. It only increased at the fact that everyone was showing him sympathy. He hadn't asked for it – he didn't even want it. Couldn't people treat him the same, and let it be like it used to?_


	14. Secret

The wind was picking apart the strands of hair on his head, willing away the heat and the dust. In his arms, Kumajirou rested – he was no longer ashamed to hold him so obviously.

"What was up with the cashier?" Gilbert asked, from the driver's seat, his eyes attentively on the moving road. Black asphalt burned.

Matthew looked to him, pausing. His mind had been on something else. "I – I don't really know. I think he was sick."

"He looked fine in the store."

Matthew wondered if he really had. Maybe none of them had been paying enough attention, and Toris really had looked ill throughout their whole encounter. "Eh."

Gilbert shrugged, apathetically, his forearm resting on the wheel. The road was lonely and straight before him, so he was letting down his guard.

Matthew remembered his mini-breakfast. He pulled it distractedly from his pocket, and opened the packet. The soft scent of cinnamon was welcoming, but familiar. He frowned, breaking off the corner of the pastry and putting it toward the driver.

"Gilbert, want a piece?" he asked.

Gilbert glanced at it, then stared at the road. "Nah, I said I was going to have a big breakfast at Hetalian."

"You don't know how long it'll take to get there."

"Oh, really?"

"Really."

Gilbert knew that he had no idea – and he knew that he hadn't even considered that they might not even reach the city until late afternoon. How could a small snack harm him? He could still have a large lunch/dinner. "Thanks," he sighed, blindly reaching out.

He missed, grabbing Matthew's hand instead. In surprise, Matthew dropped the food.

That simple confrontation made everything flood back to them; equally making them feel sick and weightless.

Gilbert was reminded of why he wanted Matthew to come with him, and Matthew was reminded of why he went.

They pulled their hands out from one another's, untangled them, and placed them back in accordance.

Matthew turned red, and said, "Sorry."

"M'not that hungry anyway," he mumbled in response, his voice low. "I need to save for that big breakfast."

And they were back to the beginning.

* * *

"There hasn't been much of a profit recently," said Feliks, smartly, rubbing his friend's head. "We could probably close down for a week or two..."

Toris stopped him, looking with wet eyes. "What sense does that make?"

Feliks pouted. "Lieeeet, I'm trying to help you here! Like, no one'll miss us if we're gone... and we have, like, money saved in the back, remember?"

"You spent that."

"No I didn't."

"Remember that spa day you just 'had to have'?"

Remembering, he frowned. "The dudes weren't even that hot..." But he shook his head, trying to get Toris more into it. "But that doesn't, like, matter! We could just go back to Hetalian for a couple days, and ya know... like, try to track them down."

"I vote we leave this whole thing alone," Toris decided, standing and moving back behind the counter.

"This isn't a democracy!" Feliks cried. "Come on, listen to me here..."

"That's all I've been doing."

Feliks glared.

It wasn't over. Feliks was going to get his due, whether Toris was willing or not.

* * *

Matthew nibbled on the food like a mouse; not hungrily, but in anxiety. Crumbs began to litter Kumajirou's soft white fur, but he didn't notice. He stared ahead. "It's really desolate out here," he commented. Then, with a hint of unusual suspicion, "Maybe we're going the wrong way?"

"No, the cashier said this way." He became hesitant. "Right?"

"Huh? You mean you're not sure?" he squeaked.

"I never said that," he snapped, fearing that his decision was being threatened. "And I just have a feeling that this way is right!"

"Oh, a feeling. Yes; that's reliable!" He wasn't all that angry, so he let it fade, and was given reason to when a dark green sign sped past his vision. "Hey – that sign just said 'Hetalian – eight miles'. I guess you're right."

Gilbert was disappointed at Matthew's lack of fight, but huffed and said, "See, I know what I'm doing."

* * *

Alfred had felt a sort of hostility recently. It only increased at the fact that everyone was showing him sympathy. He hadn't asked for it – he didn't even want it. Couldn't people treat him the same, and let it be like it used to?

But no. Normally, Alfred was at the butt of everyone's jokes – they'd make comments about his self-proclaimed 'heroism', or about his abnormally amplified strength or his patriotism – and about many other things. And he'd laugh, because he'd love the attention, and they were simply kidding him.

Now none of his conversations were that hearty. People would try to talk to him, but they'd do so cautiously: trying not to step on anything personal, adding compassionate little smiles, and looking so awkward – because of all of that, at school hours, Alfred became the lone wolf he had always imagined himself to be.

He wouldn't talk, he wouldn't laugh – he barely did his work, but he barely did to begin with. Of course, that was wearing on his mind. He needed the distractions of friends and parties to keep his focus off of his brother – but even by going to the parties and talking to his friends reminded him of his brother as well.

He was lost with no hope in the world.

So Alfred's hostility and unusual cynicism was to be expected.

The teachers didn't know what to do with him; it was their duty to involve him in class and, when suspecting trouble, question him and try to make him feel better. But his sharp answers and obscure gestures made it all the more difficult.

Once, his history teacher decided to set an ultimatum:

"If you don't tell us what's wrong, we can't help you."

His answer was fast. "What if I don't want your help?"

"Then who else is going to help you?" Desperation soaked the teacher's words, just begging.

Help. Who. Help. Alfred considered it, as he ripped his bag off of his desk and exited the room. Little posters of inspiration painted the walls around him, so he moved faster. Faster, they blurred; his bag fell from his fingers. Out of obligation, he stopped. If he was to leave the bag in the middle of the hallway, someone, tomorrow, would find it and try to give it back to him.

Lights seemed unimportant, windows peered sadly at him.

And he hung his head and said, "Who else is going to help me?"

He thought, his train of mind curling and spinning; comparing and contrasting, trying to find something simple. Simple, simple, simple…

What did others do when they needed help?

Others… who… he got it.

He was reminded of his fathers' liquor cabinet at home.

* * *

Matthew suddenly got a sense of dread, filling his heart and mind. Something numbing. He didn't know what it was, so he blamed the upcoming city and said, "Are you sure we should go here? I mean, there was talk of gangs…"

"Gangs, swangs. They should be afraid of _me_," Gilbert assessed cockily, as the dirty road got cleaner and less dust was arising from the ground. Light posts were in lines beside them.

Matthew still was dissuaded. "I have a bad feeling…"

"May I quote you? 'Oh, a feeling. Yes; that's reliable!'"

He winced. "But…"

Tall structures began to arise before them, stealing their breaths away. Multi-colored lights shined in every direction, despite it being only late noon. Noise drifted throughout the air, some of it melodious, some of it rough. It infected them, and even Matthew began to smile.

"Wow," Gilbert cried. He sped, and soon enough, those buildings were all around them.

Most of them were painted, and the ones that weren't stuck out all the same. Windows were wide and shaped differently than their neighbor's; everything seemed commercial. Businessmen paced the sidewalks; women in high-heels and low shirts strutted every which way; and once in a while, someone in tattered clothing would be crumpled in a corner. Signs were in neon, they were on cardboard, in every font imaginable, every language.

Gilbert got ever more excited as he pointed to a vertical sign in a European language. "That's German for 'Bed & Breakfast'!" he screamed, louder than needed. "Aw, man, we are so bunking there!"

Matthew thought they'd pull up, but Gilbert was on some sort of high and continued to browse the streets, looking for anything else he could translate.

A park passed them by, filled with little children and gossiping mothers. Matthew caught sight of a little girl being knocked over in a sandbox, and heard her rising cry before they were gone.

Then came a popular convenient store, if considering its massive and occupied parking lot. The sign stretched in yellow, blue, white and gold. The icon was a dancing monkey holding a banana; there was actually someone dressed up as it. The mascot walked up to a large family, holding that banana and jumping around merrily. They ignored him, and then Matthew couldn't see anymore.

Like so, the gang piece finally came into play. When Matthew first saw them, they were on his side of the car and Gilbert was looking elsewhere. So the sneer and the middle finger the leader (very small, dark-haired) gave him could only be for him.

He shuddered and leaned back in his seat.

A British pub arose, and it was amusing to see; for then, all of the drunken stories his father had told him finally had a face to the name.

Thinking about his father, Matthew wasn't the least bit homesick.

It was exhilarating.

Gilbert turned a corner, and a little ways off was a library. It looked forgotten, which was unarming – so the city didn't strive on knowledge. Then what did it strive on?

"This is a party town, hell yeah," Gilbert said to himself, though Matthew heard.

Matthew knew Gilbert could fit right in, but where did that leave him?

Gilbert clicked his tongue as they passed some sort of club with flashing lights. "We've gotta go there," he decided, tossing his head toward it. "Let's go back to the B&B and get a room or something and then come here. Man, this is awesome." He turned back the way they came and hurried his speed.

* * *

The break from work hadn't been the least bit helpful. Even when Roderich sat back at his computer, trying to type in the comfort of his rented room, he was as blank as before.

Vash was lying on the bed, finishing off some sort of drink that Roderich was sure that he shouldn't have bought for him.

Blink, blink, blink, said the computer screen, and Roderich couldn't fulfill it.

He and Vash had to arrive at an important annual meeting in two days – he needed a presentation to, well, present.

But all he had was a white screen and a drunken co-worker.

He should have never agreed to go. Roderich huffed and ran his fingers through his hair. All he had to do was sum up their branch's improvements, concerns, and plans for the future… but it had to be furnished to the brim. (He didn't want people asking him questions; he was never good when put on the spot.)

Inspiration suddenly hit him like bricks. So he said erect, and typed:

_Roderich Edelstein and Vash Zwingli_

_Myricks Branch 2010_

…Well, he had a header. But he needed a lot more.

So he stood, thinking that if light alcohol didn't help him, maybe fresh air would. He moved around his chair to push it in and slammed close his stubborn laptop. "Vash, I'm going out, okay?" he told the other. "I'll be back soon."

He got a messy dribble of foreign words in response. Vash really was drunk.

He sighed, realizing that that was yet another problem on his list to solve, and that he probably shouldn't let Vash alone. But he left anyway.

The hallways had unattractive red carpeting, with varying designs sketched so that stains wouldn't be shown as easily. It squished under his feet. The walls were beige and tall, and the elevator made worrying sounds as it descended.

Roderich was pondering over the overall capability of the place when the doors slid open.

They slid open, and he saw people loitering around in the lobby – but one person caught his eye in particular.

He thought for a moment, as he moved throughout the masses and outside. Where did he know that person? It was like trying to catch shards of a dream, and he unsuccessful. But he shrugged it off; it wasn't important.

Roderich walked down the sidewalk, planning on simply walking toward the park and back; it would take up roughly half-an-hour. That was all he needed to get out all of the distractions from his mind and fill them with work.

He hummed as he walked; he always had a (classical) rhythm in his head. He tried using that song as a cleanser, and it worked, until he finally reached the park.

There was a crying girl, hunched over her mother's knees, as the mother addressed an invisible bruise on her daughter's arm. The tears clotted in the sand on her face.

Nonetheless, Roderich sat at a bench a ways away, trying not to seem awkward. He crossed his legs, looking out at the clear sky, and then at the rowdy boys near the monkey bars.

A small boy with dark hair gripped the first bar with determination, and hung there for a moment. He reached for the next one, grabbed it; but as he tried to get both hands stable, he fell against the grass.

"Gilbert, you're so stupid!" shouted one of his friends, accusing him.

Lightening erupted in his head, and Roderich jumped from his seat.

_That_ was who he'd seen in the lobby.

Phone, phone, phone…

He cleaned out his pockets, trying to find it, but realized it was back at his room. He did find a quarter sitting before him, and he thanked every one of his lucky stars as he stole it and ran to a pay phone.

Calling his wife was the first thing he thought of, but he realized he could call her later.

The police were more initial.

He threw the coin into the slot, dialed three desperate numbers, and leaned against the pole nervously as the dial sounded.

The cord wrapped around his finger, he hummed that classical song and glanced around.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

Roderich became clumsy in speech, upon hearing that. "Well, it's not really an emergency, but I think I found someone who went missing… can I call in for that, too?"

* * *

**A/N**: Song for this chapter: _**Secret**_** by Maroon Five**. This song was actually the one that gave me the idea for this whole story originally.

Hey, the next update for this might be slow... I want to finish _Invisible Roses_ before I pick this up again, so. ^^U Shouldn't take too long, really - not as long as it normally takes me to update! xD

The story's nearing its end, yay~! -cough- I mean, awwww….

**Preview for next chapter**:

_Vash rolled onto the floor with a thump, his mind cloudy and his vision nearly unreliable. But he heard voices, voices, voices…_

_Roderich's feet were a couple meters before him, and they were all he could see. And it was Roderich's voice that rang out apprehensively:_

"_What was I supposed to do, Lizzie? He would have run if I'd approached him! …Little blonde kid? Um, I don't know, I didn't really see that- … Lizzie, I'm trying my best here!"_

_Little blonde kid. Vash used to be a little blonde kid… he rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, and smiled as he thought of his childhood._


	15. 11:11 PM

It was early in the day, just minutes after the sun had woken up, and Feliciano hadn't the pleasantries to tell it, "Good morning."

That was what he usually did, before the whole law enforcement job had became one with his schedule. Most days now, he missed his three-o'clock nap, which meant he was extra tired when he fell asleep so, depending on the day's anxieties, he would either fall asleep quickly and have trouble waking in the morning, or wouldn't fall asleep at all.

He'd be surprised if he'd closed his eyes for longer than two seconds that night.

So the sun wasn't so happy-and-smiley to him that day after the lonely not-slumber, and the golden and crispy sky didn't remind him of the oil paintings he loved so much. He thought more of the spattered blood that he used to know so well, when it was smeared into the sidewalk so it seemed more pink than red…

Nonsense.

Feliciano was driving to work, at a charming six-oh-four in the morning, already four minutes late, and he didn't need anything horrid, like his past, to fill his mind; not yet, anyway. He was determined then, to keep smiling, keep giggling throughout the day, because that was him, the happy-go-lucky-the-world-could-blow-up-and-I-wouldn't-even-notice-blissful type of guy. He didn't want to be as melancholy and disastrous as… _other people_ had tried to make him.

After all, that's why he joined the damned law enforcement, right?

To become one with the people who used to scare him witless?

Join their side?

The side that was clearly in the right?

No, stop it…

Feliciano pulled his cherry-red car into the parking lot then, and saw the navy-blue building set up like blocks in front of him. It was so depressing… No colors other than the blue, the gray whitewash, and a little golden medallion next to the sign. His lips downturned, his eyes began to glisten, as he thought of what a horrible time he'd have, lying to all of the nice people in there with his words and emotions, just because he couldn't keep his past under his pillow…

They were all such nice people…

He turned the car off, causing the only sound that had been occupying the morning to halt; he was left in silence, staring at a building he knew could swallow him whole if it wanted to.

It probably wanted to.

It wasn't until this point, when he was frantically diving at his tissues to rid of the evidence of his sorrows from his face, that he realized that the feeling of being watched wasn't just an unnatural paranoia of his, but actually occurring, about north-east of his position, eleven-o'clock around eleven meters…

And the distance was lessening secondly.

He wiped his face roughly, crudely, tossed the flower-covered box to the floor, and scrambled to rearrange the contours of his façade until it expressed nothing but pure, complete joy!

There was a knocking on his driver's window. The sound itself froze the joints in his fingers, but when he turned to see the exact face _behind_ the window, his shoulders stiffened and his heart began to race. The last indication of his misery he had, his damp tissue, feel to the bottom of the car of its own accord. He was sure that his visitor didn't see it, but he couldn't be sure…

Feliciano's face was a color darker because of you-know-who's presence, and, because of how he'd been taught, he thought up a scenario in his head to explain every little detail…

"Feliciano." Again, the window was pressured into emitting a _ping_ sound.

Dim-witted and clumsy, Feliciano rolled down the window inconsistently. "Ve, Ludwig?" he replied, taking on the appearance of a good puppy, a good puppy that would never…

Gosh.

"You're" – A quick check to his watch exacted the time – "precisely eleven point eleven minutes tardy, even before you've checked in. Do you have a meaning for this?" Ludwig raised a pale eyebrow, doubting.

Smiling seemingly innocently, but really because of his own genius, he pulled his crumpled tissue box into his arms and dabbed one of them against his nose. "I'm sick." He even blew into the soft material, but it made no sound and was airy because really, he wasn't sick.

This 'sickness' was lie number one; the smile was lie number two.

But he supposed he shouldn't keep count because he had trouble with numbers over thirty.

(Or was it forty?)

Silence responded back to him. Feliciano's heart began to beat, beat unsteadily; rising into his throat until he was sure he couldn't breathe. Nonetheless, that stubborn lie was fixated onto his chapped lips; they only thing about him that weren't quivering.

Ludwig's eyes were blue as ice, cold as stone, exploring his mind through the open entryway of Feliciano's auburn pools.

In fear, Feliciano laughed a bit so that his smile could change into one that also accompanied closed eyelids.

Despite his most wild wishes, Ludwig wasn't buying it. "It isn't flu season."

"It's just a cold," he clarified desperately. "See? My face is all red, too." He needed to point that out; Ludwig wasn't getting it.

The seconds clambered by on Ludwig's military-issue watch, blaring green, each and every one climbing over obstacles just to be in attendance.

They held another staring contest, then, and Feliciano was sure that if faking a case of the sniffles didn't work, he could just as easily have a cardiac arrest on the spot. (He'd simply double over in his seat, wouldn't that be sad?)

Ludwig straightened up, no long bending over Feliciano's door. He opened it for the phony-ill officer, cracking a smirk as Feliciano shakily got out for him. "Funny," he said, closing the door behind the boy; "I thought idiots were immune to colds..."

They walked side-by-side to the doorway, shoulder to, well… elbow with Feliciano quickly losing the embarrassed shade his face had gained. His singular pretense was slipping from him so easily; he clung to his tissue box (he probably shouldn't have brought it with him…) like a lifeline.

Ludwig still wore that damn-I'm-good smirk as he opened the door for his subordinate.

Feliciano grinned at him in appreciation, putting one step out to enter when – he froze all at once.

"Wait…" he emitted, widening his eyes into violated circles and looking up into those icy orbs that made him melt; "Did you just call me stupid?"

* * *

Vash rolled onto the floor with a _thump_, his mind cloudy and his vision nearly unreliable. But he heard voices, voices, voices…

Roderich's feet were a couple meters before him, and they were all he could see. And it was Roderich's voice that rang out apprehensively:

"What was I supposed to do, Lizzie? He would have run if I'd approached him! …Little blonde kid? Um, I don't know, I didn't really see that- … Lizzie, I'm trying my best here!"

Little blonde kid. Vash used to be a little blonde kid… he rolled onto his back, closed his eyes, and smiled memorially as he thought of his childhood.

He had a little sister when he was younger, who wasn't off with a no-good boyfriend; he had a best-friend-hate-love-enemy when he was little, someone who he couldn't presently remember, who he bickered and bickered with because he was so sure he'd leave like everyone else (he'd been right); he had a collection of army guns when he was small that kept him and his darling sister safe during the long hours of the night, when the world around them (his mother and father being the opposing forces) exploded into warfare. He hadn't liked having to protect her at the time. He had been only eight, and she only three, but it was a duty he knew he had needed to fulfill.

Vash didn't much like his childhood.

He opened his eyes to see purple ones critically watching him. He slurred, "A picture'll last longer."

Roderich scoffed, rolling his attention to the ceiling before a shrill voice on the other end of the line startled him. "No, Lizzie, that was just Vash. He's drunk off his ass. …I don't get it either. It is after ten in the morning… but you know Vash. Never one to fit to standard!"

Vash stuck out his tongue.

"I called the police, and they said they'd contact the branch where their parents are, while they searched here. It'll take a while to find the exact officers on the case. …I _do_ want to be out there helping them, Liz, but I still have all this work to do. The meeting's in two days, and - … Like I said before, Vash is smashed. I'd rather trust a monkey to finish this report for me than him at the moment…"

"I could beat that monkey's _ass_," said Vash, fisting his hands threateningly at the ceiling. He lay on his back, on the floor.

"I'm sure you could, Vash," Roderich assured him, tiredly. Last night he'd been drinking, he'd passed out for a while, had to go out for fresh air roughly about eight that morning – that's when he'd gone into the lobby, seen Gilbert, and then gone to the park. Presently at ten-fifteen, he was worrying over the time he'd lost while he slowly lost his sanity. "So Liz just… calm down, okay? Don't you have a class you should be teaching now? …What do you mean, 'You knew you were forgetting something'? Lizzie, dear, just… don't worry your pretty little head. Everything'll be fine. I'll talk to you later, darling. Love you." And he hung up that dirty phone, placed it to the counter.

He was really growing a distaste for telephones recently.

"'I'll talk to you later, darling. Love you!'" Vash imitated, irritated, glaring up at his business partner from the floor. The image was upside-down. "You're such a sap."

"You're a cheapskate." Roderich pulled his jacket from the back of his chair.

"Mole-faced brat."

"Trigger-happy Swiss." He unplugged his computer blandly, and made sure the battery life was fine.

"Aristocratic bastard!"

"Neutral nuisance," he accused, referring to the way Vash refused to take sides during any office argument. Roderich packed his laptop into his carry-on shoulder bag, and opened the door.

"Classical crazy character," he garbled, his words running together, not even making sense, as he rolled on his stomach to stare daggers at his friend.

"Drunk-assed _idiot_," Roderich finished, with a roll to his voice; so childish. He closed the door behind him, after he had left.

"Wait what?" Vash mumbled, not even understanding what he was saying. "Where's he going? That pompous pianist! He can't leave me here…" He sat up tenderly, looking around the room in apprehension. "That monkey'll find me!"

* * *

Hours later, Feliciano had settled down into his office, his box of tissues in front of him. He had another pile of papers to deliver to Ludwig, but he was nervous, see, because the last time he had given a stack to him it had all turned to snow in summer. Almost literally, since all of the vanilla papers flying around Ludwig's office had really seemed like snow…

He chewed on his fingernails, which were getting bloody. Feliciano hadn't had trouble all day with keeping his smile up, but he had the hinting feeling that Ludwig was ultimately suspicious.

Which, at the same time, made his heart happy and sad.

(It was just a little crush…)

Forget it! He sat up straighter. He needed to give him the papers and get out as quick as humanly possible, without falling over invisible objects, or over his own words.

There were ten or so thick folders. Not as much as last time, but they felt so much heavier when he collected them into his arms, and hugged them against his chest, similarly how he'd clutched his tissue box earlier.

Deep breath, deep breath, sure steps. He made it out of his room, and Ludwig's was only a few down the hallway. He could do this, he could do this.

Feliciano tapped on the damned door.

"Come in."

The voice made him wince; it was dark. Ludwig was in a bad mood. Even though they'd known each other less than a year, Feliciano knew that bad moods meant nothing good. He didn't want to face those beautiful eyes when they were stormy. "V-Ve, I have some case folders for you," Feliciano cried, extending his voice to the other side of the door. "I'll – I'll just put them outside of the room, Ludwig sir, if you're busy, sir."

He bent quickly to sit on his heels. He could hear his name being said, in that same dark voice; he hurried while he ignored it. Feliciano put the folders in a neat pile, leant them against the wooden doorway.

Ooops, he wasn't so lucky.

One of them, the one at the top, thinking it was so privileged, fell to the side. It hit the ground; the footsteps were on top of him, Feliciano panicked.

He reached out for the folder, lost his balance, the door opened.

If he hadn't had to grasp that folder, he would have been long gone.

"Ludwig… sir," he said, face first in the carpet. At least, he realized, if the door hadn't been opened, he would be sporting a bruise instead of a rug burn.

That… didn't make anything better.

"I'm so sorry," he rushed to say, getting back up to his heels.

The eyes that he expected to be roaring in anger were pretty soft, pretty loving.

He stopped mid-whine.

"Feliciano, get in here," Ludwig said firmly; no room for argument.

Feliciano needed to find that room for argument. He couldn't go in there! "But I – isn't there – why don't – ?"

"Now. And pick up the papers while you're at it."

Nervous minutes later, Feliciano was sitting, erect, in Ludwig's chair – the one that was reserved for clients, only. He could remember Big Brother Francis sitting in the same exact place, fever painting his face…

Oh, how ironic.

The fever Feliciano was trying to fake had been real on someone else's portrait, in the same exact placement.

Hm… wrong timing, then…

"I know you're not sick, Feliciano."

Feliciano had expected it, but he still gasped, as if it was new to him. "What – but – "

"And I have no idea why you'd want to fake it," Ludwig continued, undaunted, all business with the undertone of personal concern; "If the job's getting to you, I can understand that, but I doubt that that's what you're trying to get at. If the job was bothering you, you'd have stayed _home_ and faked it."

Strike one.

"Also, I wondered if it was because of the little… _altercation_ you had with the cafeteria lady two days ago. But Feliciano, just because someone doesn't have pasta, doesn't mean she has to jump up and make it for you. We have standards here, you must understand. Then again, if _that_ was what was bothering you, you simply would have packed your lunch, not played sick."

Strike two.

"Finally, I was thinking that it was possible that you just wanted to get out of the desk work we have today after closing yesterday's case. But I remembered that _you're_ not doing the paperwork, and that _I_ am. You understand why faking sick because of that doesn't make sense, either."

Strike three.

He really had lost his touch at lying…!

Ludwig uncrossed his arms, trying to look friendlier. "So Feliciano… it must be something irrelevant to work. And though I'm not supposed to, I'm giving you a chance to come clean. Is it something at home, relationship problems…?" (Who was he, Dr. Phil?)

Feliciano sniffed, wanting his tissue box in front of him, instead of the papers that had gotten him caught in the first place. "I… I live alone," he began, "and I'm single, ve, so it's not that…"

"Then what is it?" Trying not to appear… well, _business-like_, he stood and moved around to place the papers in a cardboard box beside his desk. Then he sat on the lip of the desk, right in front of his friend. "Go on."

"I just… realized how different this life is from what I used to be involved with, and it's really scaring me" he mumbled, careful not to meet the other's eyes, as his life story split his lips. "I have a brother… he's my twin, actually… who got caught up with some bad people at a very young age."

Even at that stage in the story, Ludwig saw parallels with the Bonnefoy case…

"And… everything about us, except for our hair, and, well, personalities, was identical… so people would confuse us, but could usually tell us apart." He smiled a bit. "It was all a game, to me, at first, when my brother let me join his so-called 'gang'. (It turns out, he gets more status if he recruits someone, and that was me!) We just… walked around looking threatening. I felt important, for once."

When he saw the sympathetic eyes, Feliciano shook his head. Tears flowed like twin rivers. "No, no, my brother really really c-cares about me, honest! He never wanted me to get hurt. He just needed some way to keep me under closer guard, i-is all. But one d-day…

"B-But one day, I was sent to receive a package from someone else."

"Oh, no…"

"Yeah… it didn't end up t-too good. Turns out that the person we needed to get it from was a traitor. He was in the rival gang. They took me hostage for a long time, saying they'd give me back if my brother's gang gave them… something. I didn't even know what it was; it must have been before I was involved." It was getting increasingly harder to keep his voice steady, but he'd been doing surprisingly well.

He put one of his bloody fingers against his chin, tapping. "I was there for days, no sign of my brother. I lost a lot of faith." Suddenly, his eyes were liquid pools. "But, but Ludwig! Do you want to know what the meanest part was?"

Ludwig didn't. He didn't. No, he didn't want; don't tell him –

"They kept a scoreboard. On my back. Every day my brother didn't show up was another knife to my skin.

"It tallied up to seventeen.

"And they never healed properly, either."

Ludwig's stone-hard resolved fell like rubber. He arched straighter, imagining the physical and simultaneous emotional pain. He'd seen many cases over the course of his occupation, but this hit close to home, because the victim was sitting right in front of him, and had always been.

And he hadn't… even… _known_.

Feliciano finished, "The police didn't care at all. It was because I was, you know, one of the trouble-makers. Since I really didn't want to be kidnapped again, when my gang finally came to release me (my brother wasn't even there…) I ran away. I came here, and enrolled in law enforcement, despite the fact that I'd always been so terrified of the blue uniform. I just want to give justice to someone who wouldn't get it otherwise… and that's why I'm here, and why I'll never go back."

He shook.

Ludwig stood, wanting to initiate a contact that would convey that everything was all right now, but his phone trilled.

It was eleven-eleven in the morning.

"Excuse me," Ludwig said to him, his voice unusually unsteady, having been effected by the story. He moved back to sit in his chair. He answered the phone, briskly. "Weillschmidt. …Yes, I am." There was silence, and all at once, Ludwig's eyes were saucers. "Where did you say?" He knocked over three things in his haste to get to his notepad and pen. "Mhm… mhm… mhm… Alright. You get your undercover officer ready for noon tomorrow. We'll be there then. Thank you; good bye." He hung up the phone, and met his friend's wet eyes. He faltered; possibly it wasn't the right time... But Feliciano asked:

"What is it?" Quiet, the aftereffects of the outpouring of his soul over his neck.

"They've spotted Gilbert," he confessed, trying not to smile.

Instantly, and probably involuntarily, Feliciano grinned for him. "That's great! What about… what about that other boy? What was his name?"

"Matthew." Was that right? "Yes; they suspect that he's there, too, though they haven't seen him. Tomorrow, they're going to get an undercover agent that supposedly has more information than we do to lure Gilbert to a certain location, where we'll take him in and get him home."

Feliciano stood, and stretched his lengthy arms over his head. He felt a lot better. "So where are they, ve?"

"Some town called Hetalian, just a few hour's drive west." He pulled the folders from the box and put them back on his desk. "You and I will head out tomorrow, oh-eight-hundred sharp."

Feliciano felt sick. The tendons in his body turned to ice. He froze, mid-stretch. The floodgates opened in his eyes once more, but he didn't sob verbally. His heart had sunken into the acidic depths of his stomach. "H… Hetalian?"

"Yes, it's a very international region, I've heard." Ludwig busied himself with re-organizing his trinkets then. Everything on his desk was very specific.

"N-No," Feliciano stuttered, shaking his head. "Get someone else to go with you, please? I can't."

Ludwig snorted. "You're _not_ sick. You can go just as well as anyone else." He felt bad for saying that. Very, very bad.

"No, I really can't!" he cried, becoming hysterical faster than expected. "_I told you I'll never go back!_"

Pausing, Ludwig had the phone to his ear again, ready to dial his father with the news. "What are you carrying on about, Feliciano?"

"Hetalian is where… where my brother lives…" He collapsed, a bag of shattered nerves, back into the seat. "And where those dreadful people kidnapped me."

* * *

Neither of them had to work.

Francis was reading at the kitchen table, a rather interesting French book in his hands that he'd uncovered in his closet days prior. It was just as dirty as the title implied!

Arthur was just beginning his mid-day tea a bit earlier than usual, trying to occupy his time, since nothing was on television for him to watch; Alfred was at school.

The room was silent, and so full of memories, that neither dared to met another's eyes, in case one would try to talk about them.

The phone rang, very loudly, and each of their hearts soared in anticipation. Arthur got to the electronic device first. "Hello?"

And his heart raced even faster when he heard the voice on the other side.

"Officer Weillschmidt. Yes. …No, we're not doing anything. …Really? Oh, sure, yes, we'll be over there as fast as we can," Arthur emitted throughout the conversation, before hanging up. He turned to face his partner, a curiously wide grin on his face. "They think they've found Matthew."

Francis started. "_Vraiment_?"

Arthur just nodded, rowdily. "Officer Weillschmidt said that he can give us more information if we go down to the precinct."

"_Qu'est-ce qu'on attend_?" asked Francis, smiling pleasantly; he was stuck unknowingly on French, because he'd been reading in French for the past two hours. His train of thought was European.

It happened some times.

Some times were more opportune than others…

Arthur simply didn't notice, too absorbed in his own happiness to hear what was being said. He knew Francis well enough to figure out what he was trying to say, anyway.

"I'll start the car," Arthur said as he fished the keys from the counter. Then, a thought hit him – "While I do that, leave a note for Alfred, alright? Tell him we don't know when we'll be home and that he better eat and get his arse in bed by ten." He left the room, and then the house.

"_Bien sûr_." Francis nodded enthusiastically, owning a page of notepad from the center of the table. It was where the family gave notes to one another. In blue ink, and in his most excited cursive, he scrawled:

"_Cher Alfred,_

_Nous avons reçu des nouvelles de ton frère! Mange ton souper et va te coucher à dix heures. _

_Je t'aime, Papa._"

He added a heart at the end of it, and a smiley face in the middle. Trying to show that from now on, everything would be fine.

Francis left in a storm, forgetting that his son thought that French was what cats purred.

* * *

Hours later, all of the details had played out – they were most likely getting their darling Matthew back by that time the next day. But there was the chance that Gilbert had simply ditched Matthew somewhere, that Arthur couldn't dismiss.

"My gosh, it's after ten PM," Arthur huffed, regarding the clock irately as they drove home. It hadn't taken that long, had it? How surprising…

Francis's eyes widened slightly, staring out of his passenger side window. He still suffered from random migraines, and didn't trust himself to drive so late at night. "I wonder how Alfred's doing…" It was a spontaneous thought. He was the first to ever voice the sentiment, they had never wondered over Alfred's regard.

"He better be asleep like we told him," Arthur said harshly. Since he had lost one son, he wanted to make sure that the other damn well took care of his self. It came off as severity, but was fueled by love.

Francis realized his mistake, then, at that millisecond. His eyes intensified, he thought the worst: "A… Alfred doesn't understand any French, correct?"

"Not a lick. Why?"

"I think I… I think I accidently wrote the note to him… in French."

Arthur had half a mind to be angry, but he simply deflated, and gave his son the benefit of the doubt. "He… he has enough common sense to eat and go to bed in a timely manner, right?"

"Have you noticed how he's been acting recently? I just really hope that he doesn't think we've… left him, or something…"

"You're crazy. He's dramatic, but I doubt he'd stoop so low as to…"

"…As to what?"

"Do something… drastic." Very discreetly, Arthur edged his speed up to fifty miles and hour, whereas the speed limit was thirty-five.

* * *

Drips of trepidation were steadily falling down his lips, as wet and as slippery as his thoughts, which were presently sloshing around in his mind. It wasn't a pleasant sight. Mother Moon had taken more of an interest to the china on the table that was so carefully set, and laden with food long gone, than to his façade, meaning demonic little shadows filled his face and danced behind his eyes. His back was sore from being so uncomfortably slouched against a wooden case, the corners just begging to be one with his spine.

This hadn't been what he'd planned.

Alfred had been momentarily insane to think that the answer to all of his problems was drinking, of all disgusting habits he could have figured. He'd laughed it off.

"I'm not going to be some whiny drunk who drinks away his woes," he'd said to himself, before finally leading himself home.

He'd planned that, you know, he'd exercise out all of his frustrations through, well, exercise. They had a basketball hoop in there driveway, that was easy enough; he could go running, with his music blaring out his thoughts; or he could have pulled out his old punching bag and slammed on it until his knuckles were blood.

But when he came home, he found an empty house, and nothing but a stupid note on the kitchen table, written in damn French. Francis had probably meant it for Matthew, and thinking about that... well, one thing led to another.

He had prepared dinner as if everyone would come home to him, four plates around a circular table. It was rude to eat before everyone else, so he hadn't... he'd drunk.

Currently, his eyes were blood-shot and irritated, wincing under the lack of light they were receiving. His glasses… he didn't know when he'd lost them throughout his mental fit, but they were probably broken and Alfred couldn't see.

Though he was damn sure that the digital clock read eleven-eleven PM when the front doors finally opened.

The first words he recognized when his fathers stood, frozen, in front of him was Francis enigmatically mumbling:

"Define _drastic_."

* * *

**A/N**: I've officially made everyone in this story emo and/or troubled and/or with-a-bad-past. Someone, please, stop me. (Because I've even considered ending the story with a death. That's a big no-no, right?)

If anyone wants to fix the French, please do.

**Translations**:

_Vraiment_ - Really?

_Qu'est-ce qu'on attend?_ - What are we waiting for?

_Bien sûr_ - Sure!

And the note reads, "Dear Alfred, We do not know when we'll be home. There is news about your brother! Eat your dinner and be in bed by ten. Love, Dad."

(This chapter didn't have Matthew or Gilbert in it, interestingly enough! I think the people surrounding their situation are more interesting than they are... xD If you think I need more of them in this, since they are the main concern, don't hesitate to tell me!)

If you want to know why my updates are slow, it's because of school and the fact that I'm currently working on another project, _Invisible Roses_. I'm not giving up on this, but this just isn't going to be in my head as much as the other. ^^"

Lucky for you, I woke up (literally) with the determination to update this for you. ~~

**Song for this chapter**: _**11:11 PM**_** by the All-American Rejects**. Think about how well this fits.

**Preview for next chapter**:

_If someone had told Toris previous in the day that, _hey, someone's going to drug your drink and kidnap you_, he wouldn't have believed them._

_Now he wished someone _had_ told him, so he could have seen it coming._

_He didn't like surprises._


	16. Love Save the Empty

His eyes were tiny, lethargic slits settled in the front of his face. Their purpose, to give him vision and sight, a view of the world around him, wasn't connected to his brain. He saw nothing he could process; only ever-expanding blackness.

He was aware of his other senses, alternatively. There was a wind spearing through his hair at a great speed, possibly he'd been put before an electronic fan; his skin was tingling and taunt with a heat, a heat that came from above, possibly it was a desk lamp… there was additionally an overpowering light. He was guessing he was in someone else's room, someone else's furnished room.

But the smell… threw him off… He smelled gasoline… gasoline and… burning rubber? Dust and dirt? Earth?

And did a bird just crow?

He tried to figure… Was he in a _car_? A moving _car_?

Toris's heart began to race, then. Yes. He was in a car! The wind caressing him was from their velocity, the light and heat were from the sun…

But… why was he in a car? How had he gotten there?

He flashed back…

_Toris made it back into the building after speaking with Matthew. His heart had been a hurricane in his chest, a cold sweat covered his face… He fell to the floor, panting, not able to catch his breath._

_Whether it was a miracle or an inconvenience, Feliks had spontaneously decided to walk by. He saw his coworker, his friend, sitting slumped against the door and hurried toward him. The lollipop was finished._

_"__Oh, like, Liet, what, like, happened to you?" Feliks bent down next to him, quickly putting his arms around him. Comforting, he moved hair from his face. He dismissed their earlier altercation._

_Toris smiled at him; because Feliks's earlier ingenious had turned out to be just the opposite… genius. Pure, unlucky genius. He now held knowledge he didn't want. He tried to get a grasp over his body then; calm down, calm down, calm down. "You were right, Feliks. That wa__s **the** Gil__bert!"_

_Feliks had reacted the same way he did when watching television: when a character confessed their love, or when someone suddenly admitted that they were in possession of a deadly disease. His eyes dilated impossibly, his eyebrows met his hairline, and he gasped, "Like, _**_no way_**_!__"_

_"Way," Toris had agreed. By declaring it out loud, it all had become reality._

_Feliks still didn't let it sink in. "Like… no way…"_

_Toris smiled at him, because he didn't know what else to do. "Yeah. That was_ **_his _**_son."_

_Feliks got riled up; he inflated his chest, to respond with anger and determination, but Toris spoke over him:_

_"__Well, what's done is done!" Quick, quick, no room for interruption. "It simply threw me for a scare, is all." He pressed his hand to the wall, and used it to guide himself up. Or he tried to. Feliks was still latched around his neck. His eyes were wide and pleading, until they morphed threateningly._

_"__You know what we've gotta do now, right?" Feliks hissed, mischievously, his lips fine and upturned. His voice was right next to Toris's neck, filtering into his ear._

_Toris's hair stood on end. "No, Feliks," he dismissed. Because really, all he wanted was to get it done with and behind him. "We're not chasing after him or whatever… We're just going to continue with our mundane living like we have, alright? Nothing's happened."_

_The bell above their entranceway rung for the second time that day. It echoed across the building, it wafted toward them; it was relief, on Toris's behalf._

_Toris smiled. A distraction! "A customer!" This time, he successfully managed to pry Feliks's needy and soft hands from him. "We can fool around later. It's time for business, okay?" He ignored what he saw in the duel green staring at him – he ignored the obvious rebellion just boiling, the concern mixing with affection underneath. Toris stood, and with the grace parallel to his thin frame, floated toward the front of the store._

_The first thing he saw was a figure in a dark brown coat lingering at the checkout area, but holding nothing to purchase. Toris went behind the counter; he plastered his most gleeful smile, even if his mind was still throbbing. "Can I help you, sir?"_

_Suspicion hung like a cloud above this customer, this new patron – the brown coat was long and fell to twin ankles, and the collar was erected to hide the distinguishing features of the chin and jaw. A shadow was the neck. But Toris could see unruly brunette hair that stuck out from underneath a brown hat… The skin he saw that peeked out was tanned and visibly consistently kissed by the sun… smooth and supple. Dark._

_Toris didn't know why he felt so uneasy all of a sudden. His heart began to tumble; chemicals were flooding into his bloodstream, preparing him for flight or fight._

…_Where was Feliks…?_

_The man coughed, deep in his throat, dispelling a knot; it seemed he hadn't spoken for quite a while. "_Sí_… I'm looking for small snacks for the roads… do you have anything to interest me?"_

_There was a very obvious Spanish accent dragging down the man's words. Toris was surprised, and realized the man might possibly be coming from Hetalian, the place he never wanted to go to again. Toris was happy for the man, as tears began to assault his eyes at the reconnection, because the man was leaving the awful place._

_"__Well… We have an assortment of chips and candies over there, sir," Toris replied, his smile wavering, but shining brilliantly, as a producer's should._

_The brunette mass bobbed. "_Gracias_." He moved fluidly in the direction Toris had indicated._

_When his back was turned, Toris let out a deep breath. Good for the man, he was thinking, for leaving that horrible city…_

_Suddenly, there was a presence against his back. A silky, sensual, welcome presence against his shoulders. Tender locks of hair, crisp, fell over to brush against his neck. A body was imploring, sharing, his body heat, leaning into him. But because he was so off his hinder, Toris didn't follow through with his initial response __–_ to sigh heavenly and fall backward _–_ instead he jumped and spun around, ultimately dismissing the contact once and for all.

_Feliks started, staring at his friend with frightened, hurt, eyes that revolved like stars. The downy hair was pushed behind an ear. "Like, chill, Liet. You just looked really uptight, so I brought you as glass of water to, like, calm you down…" In the glass he held, the water was crashing against the sides; spilling to the floor, because when Toris had jumped, Feliks had too._

_Toris was breathing heavily. "Oh, thank you, Feliks… Sorry. But thank you." He took the glass graciously; not very thirsty, he placed it behind him. He had the need to repeat: "Thank you" because Feliks still seemed upset._

_Feliks's eyes betrayed nothing but worry. "Do ya, like, want me to handle this guy for ya? Let me like, take the counter. I totally wouldn't mind… You can go 'n' sit down?"_

_The response was quick. "No, no. I'm perfectly alright. Thank you… though…"_

_Even if he didn't believe him, Feliks nodded slowly. "Okay then, Liet…" He moved, like a phantom, back toward the storage room._

_Good. Feliks was safe from the onslaught of their past…_

_Toris turned back, looking for the Spanish man. The hat peered out from over an aisle. It was moving, nodding and shaking, as if the man was speaking to himself. Questioning the health of the items, to himself. Nothing more than a murmur in the air conditioning._

_How odd._

_After a few moments, the man came back to the counter; slowly, carefully, still looking around as if what he was searching for would appear any second. He seemed optimistic like that. When he was firmly against the counter, leaning over it, closer to Toris, only then did he pout. "Ah, no…" he emitted to Toris, finally letting his eyes be seen; they were green. Green as apples, or the leaves of spring trees. Wide and green, perfectly happy._

_Green eyes, who would have thought…_

_The man continued, still looking around uneasily, "I'm afraid you don't have exactly what I'm looking for." He spied the glass sitting calmly on the counter; instantly, he became a bit more ecstatic. With a wide smile he suggested, "Do you think you could check in the back for me? In the storage? I don't know what the snack is called, but they are a type of chip… in a purple bag… of Spanish origin?" He paused, captured within his own mind, absently rolling R's on his tongue; trying to figure out the name. Seeing if he could spit it out. Then he stopped, still not a step closer. He whined, "They__ **are **__relatively new."_

_Toris, unwilling to move, he was so tired, so deflated. "Um, sir, you see, there are a lot of things back there and I doubt something so –__"_

_"_Por favor?_" the man pleaded. And then he corrected himself: "Ah, please? Could you do this for me? I still have such a long drive…"_

_Long drive. Out of Hetalian. To freedom. Where Toris had never been able to fully reach… why shouldn't he ease someone else's brain? Make someone else feel better?_

_And who was Toris to deny those green eyes?_

_"__Sure, sure. I'll be just a moment…" he relented, softly._

_Toris paraded toward the door Feliks had come from. Once in the back room, he was surprised not to see his blonde friend anywhere around._

_Feliks usually never left the back after a haircut… Never left the store, except for when they'd leave for the day… What could Feliks be doing somewhere else?_

_But Toris couldn't worry over him. (Feliks was just probably trying to find where Toris had hidden the bag of lollipops, he figured.) He looked around the multiple boxes, trying to figure out what the man had been talking about. A type of chip in a purple bag? Spanish origin? What did that even mean? Nothing came to his mind… To save face, he walked around endlessly, making it seem as if he was actually looking. He moved a few boxes; crunched a few bottles, to create noise._

_After minutes, no Feliks ever appeared; fret was suppressed; but Toris walked back to the front, nonetheless, to convey the 'bad news' to the Spanish ma –_

_He stopped in his tracks. Toris's blood froze in his veins. He faded into the walls, his heart wild under his chest, cold…_

_The man – the oh so suspicious man, the suspicious man from Hetalian, the suspicious man from Hetalian with the green, green eyes – was openly cradling a gun. Just… cradling a gun! He had pulled it out of nowhere – he was holding it out, peering at it, thinking no one was around, and assessing it._

_Then he slid it back into a holster in his belt, hidden behind his coat._

_Who was this man? Toris's mind was alight with wonder. Additionally, there was a slice of fear. His breath hitched; the Spanish man realized he was there by the acute sound. He didn't seem to realize what Toris had seen. He didn't question Toris's wide-eyed,_ _**please-don't-kill-me **__look._

_"__Ah, did you find it?" was the only thing asked._

_Toris shook his head, not trusting his mouth. His dry, dry mouth… He was suddenly incredibly thirsty; thank heavens for Feliks. But the glass of water was between him and the man._

_He didn't move… because getting closer to the water meant getting closer to the gun._

_Though the man expressed upmost dissatisfaction, he only said, "Oh, well! I guess I will just be buying this, then." He turned, picked a packet of crackers from a nearby showcase, and then placed it on the counter. Meanwhile, his smile was beaming._

_It made him look all the more suspicious, Toris thought…_

_Toris had a boulder in his throat. Mirror-image hammers were pounding at his temples. He didn't want to move. But he couldn't appear as frightened as he was! He couldn't let go of his façade, if it was so easily believable… So he nodded, nodded absently, and approached the counter. _

_He rung up the singular item; took the cash; then he bid the man, "Have a good day." Luckily, his voice didn't shake._

_The man spared a last look to Toris's glass before his grin intensified. Why was the glass making him…? "_Sí_, have a nice day!" The meaning didn't seem to reach his eyes. Then he was gone._

_Toris was left alone with the aftereffects of apprehension. He breathed in deeply, normally, as he collapsed against the counter. Keeping his head propped up by his hand, and his hand by his elbow, his elbow by the counter, his other hand grasped at the glass of water. Fingering the cool glass. He brought it to his lips, breathed deeply, and swallowed wholly._

Toris presently realized that that was the last thing he could remember.

Panic set in like a ghostly guest, invading his mind. _There had been something in his drink!_ While he had been off to look for the item that probably didn't exist, the gun-wielding Hetalian-native had probably _poisoned_ it! _Drugged_ it! And now the man had kidnapped him; only heaven knew why…

If someone had told Toris previous in the day that, _hey, someone's going to drug your drink and kidnap you_, he wouldn't have believed them. Nope. He wouldn't have. He would have called them out as crazy; laughed in their face, maybe.

Now he wished someone _had_ told him, so he could have seen it coming. Possibly he wouldn't have taken a drink. If he couldn't have prevented that – if the man would have encouraged him relentlessly, if he would have had to take a drink – he would have told Feliks he loved him or something, just as a final farewell…

The whole day had been terrible. He should have seen this ending coming, he should have…

He didn't like surprises.

Toris felt sick. He didn't want to be kidnapped…

He also didn't want to open his eyes any wider; he could tell he was in a passenger seat of an open convertible, but nothing else. He didn't want his kidnapper realizing he was awake…

Toris worried over Feliks, in the few seconds he was pretending to be unconscious. He was sure his friend would overreact… possibly that's what he needed now, someone to believe that the drastic had happened. Nonetheless, he worried, worried over how he was worrying someone else.

Then the radio exploded with fresh hip-hop, a manicured hand retracted from the dials; the onslaught of sudden sound made Toris jump. It was clear to everyone now that he was awake and alive.

And thus his cover was blown.

Horror merged into his veins; _please don't shoot, please don't shoot…!_

But Feliks was beside him, of all people he'd expected. He wore dark, yet pink-rimmed sunglasses, with one hand on the steering wheel and one in the wind. He bobbed his head to the music. "Like, I thought you'd never wake up, Liet!" he crooned, yelling over the noise.

Shaky and nervous, Toris spastically turned the radio off. Nonetheless, he screamed as if there was still noise to scream over, "What the heck is going on?"

The road was speeding under his feet. Feliks blinked, surprised by the exclamation. He pushed his glasses into his hair, coolly. His voice was careful, and tiptoed slowly. "We're, like, going to Hetalian."

An iceberg crashed against his heart; fear settled in like a blanket, securing his organs and making him go cold. The sun suddenly wasn't so overpowering… Toris stuttered, "N-No, Feliks… No…!"

"Like, yeah!" Feliks shouted. Then he quieted, mollifying his own personality for empathy: "Look, Liet, this is for your own good! You wouldn't go any other way, so I had to create a cocktail of my own!" He seemed entirely too proud. Winked, as if it was due for compliment.

Toris opened his mouth, to demand what the heck he'd used; where he'd got it; and to never, ever, do it again; but Feliks saw it coming.

"Like, Liet, if I spill my secret you might use it against me!" He stuck his tongue out to interrupt his smile. He went on with, "I know you just want to, like, throw all of your problems in a massive closet like they're last year's fashion statements, but it's not healthy! Because then, like, they build and build until your closet explodes! And I don't want your closet to explode, Liet."

"What in the world do you plan on doing?" As he spoke breathlessly, harsh and dry like a tense whistle, Toris was figuring it out in his mind. So the Spanish man hadn't drugged him. It had been Feliks; whatever he'd been given… ultimately wasn't water.

Feliks shrugged, completely unconcerned. "Dunno yet. But whatever my plan is, it's totally great. And why'd you like, turn off the radio Liet? It was totally my favorite song!"

Toris's head spun. The relief infecting him calmed his heart rate down; he was realizing, he wasn't in any immediate danger, not quite, Feliks wouldn't hurt him… But Hetalian? Hetalian might just break him.

He wondered what he had done to deserve such a 'friend' like Feliks.

Feliks turned on the radio again. The song was over; he glared, very annoyed, at Toris. "I'll probably, like, never hear that song again, thanks to you, Liet!" He shook his head side to side, clicking his tongue, before he spoke to himself: "Gosh! Think you're doing something nice for someone and then they like, turn off your radio… ungrateful little…"

And thus, they were off for Hetalian.

* * *

Alfred walked around with a thunderstorm over his head. He scowled at whatever moved toward him. By the end of the day, no one tried to help him. No one would ask what was wrong – no one bothered him with sympathies…

Like Alfred wanted.

But not today.

He was carrying around a burden that he swore would suffocate him.

How could he have been so stupid? He didn't even want to think about what he'd done the night prior. How could he have been so stupid?

Now he had a hangover, and he could understand why people complained about them so heavily. But of course, he couldn't tell anyone. Social Services would be called, or whatever. Therapists would get involved…

Though the thing worrying him the most was just an addition. As the school day began to end, Alfred knew his fathers were on the road, off to save his little brother!

And he hadn't been invited.

_"__Why not," he'd demanded. "Why can't I go too?"_

_"__Too dangerous," was the answer; "We've got it handled," was the reply._

Though he was surprised they'd leave him alone after an episode like that… He could just as easily invade the cabinets again, trying to find something just as harmful, something that would disintegrate his brain cells, make him numb – despite the fact they'd gotten rid of all the alcohol… what else was left…

As he carried around his mental baggage, he didn't look where he was going – and subsequently, he ran into another body, another body that was also drenched in gloom.

He backed up. His first response was to tell the person to watch the hell out, but it was a teacher. He couldn't rightfully say that. So Alfred apologized, "Oh. Sorry," without any real regret.

The brunette woman first reacted with irritant anger, too, a natural defense; but then that anger multiplied into fury when she saw the teenage face. The giveaway glasses. The lack of grin. She could see the words coming from his mouth: _"But I am doing this in your favor, Kiku."_

Lies! He just needed the attention!

"You!" she accused, pointing a dramatic finger.

Alfred looked up at her, eyebrows contracted. "Me what?" he asked, though he was in no mood to speak. He couldn't have possibly –

"You're the one who tried to make Kiku confess before he was ready, you jerk! What were you thinking?" By her eyes, it was evident she wanted to smack him around – but that wasn't what a teacher did, darn it.

Alfred scoffed, "What?"

"You thought you were so cool, about to spill Kiku's greatest secret. But that's just –"

"Oh…" Alfred's soft affirmation stopped her. "Oh, right." Memories played against his head. He really had been stupid.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

But all of her yelling was hurting his head. "Right… sorry." He watched her from underneath pale eyelashes. "But who are you…?"

"Mrs. Héderváry. I'm actually Matthew's reading teacher," she huffed, turning her nose up and away.

The tornadoes behind Alfred's eyes increased at the mention. "Oh. Nice to meet you… I guess."

Elizaveta winced then, realizing that what she'd said probably hadn't been the most delightful way to greet a grieving sibling. But did Alfred know the news? That her husband had spotted him (or not really him but Gilbert)? "Alfred, is it? Right. Don't be so down over Matthew! Turns out, they think he's in a town called Hetalian halfway across –"

Again, his quiet voice was capable of stopping her cold: "Yeah… I _know_."

"Well, why aren't you happy and giddy?" She certainly was, albeit internally.

"My parents wouldn't let me go with them to find him. They say I'm too immature to get involved, but I think I have a right to…" He faded.

Elizaveta paused, because she saw parallels between them. She was also confined, not allowed… "Can't you drive?"

"Took away my keys," he fragmented glumly. He didn't explain why.

"Ah." She peered at the clock hanging above the lockers, as an idea came to her. Three minutes until dismissal. She figured that the police would be getting to Hetalian within the next two hours or so… But did it really matter if they were a little late to the party?

"Well, _I_ can drive…" (She had been planning on disobeying her husband's wishes in the first place.) "Too bad, as a teacher, I shouldn't be taking students from precious school time…" (Though he had already been out of a classroom…) Her voice clipped in disappointment, and she couldn't ignore the way his eyes brightened. How a weight seemed to lift his shoulders, ease his posture; the scowl across his lips died away, until his mouth was just two rosy lines, threatening to upturn with good news…

Alfred clutched his hands together in excitement. "Mrs. Her-der-berry!" He said quickly, "Please, could you drive me?"

She was dissuaded because of his awful pronunciation. "If you can say my name right, then maybe."

He childishly quirked his head at her. "But I did."

She chuckled, "Yeah, that's funny, kid." She leaned down, closer to him. "_Héderváry_. Get the accents."

"…Hérd-er-vry?"

"Héderváry."

"Héd… váry…"

"Héder…váry! Put it together, boy!" She gripped him; playfully shook his shoulders.

Alfred actually laughed; first time in a while. He liked her. "Héderváry!" He beseeched her eyes, excited, a grin at the edges of his expression. "That was right, right?"

She smirked, softly. She had to admit, she was proud of him, overlooking the fact it had only taken Matthew once to get it right. "Yep, there you go. Don't forget it." She had to consider the clock again; in less than a minute, they would be allowed free… (She didn't have a last block, and that was the reason she'd been roaming around. She had been distracted. She hadn't wanted to do paperwork or grade.)

Elizaveta agreed, "Okay. I can take you there. I want to visit my husband, anyway." A valid excuse! "We just have to wait 'til school's out…"

Alfred held, then, a respect he had never had toward a teacher. He remembered his history teacher's exasperated, exaggerated words:

"_If you don't tell us what's wrong, we can't help you._"

But now he figured he had the one person who could solve all of his problems.

The bell finally rang; Elizaveta seemed more thrilled than Alfred. She fisted the air. "Here we go!"

And thus, they were off for Hetalian.

* * *

It wasn't that he was trying to be forceful. He wasn't trying to overpower him, per say; he wasn't telling him to stay close because he was afraid, or because he was older and was allowed…

Gilbert just kind of liked Matthew being next to him. Holding onto him, when the streets became more populated; sharing in his space. Apologizing for touching him, turning red.

He hadn't stopped smiling since they'd left the bed and breakfast.

Gilbert, constantly, was torn between making fun of him for being so cute or not mentioning it… Pretending he didn't see it…

"Sorry…" Matthew still sounded extremely apologetic, but he couldn't help it, because a group of rowdy teenagers were coming toward them. Though Matthew was a teenager himself, Gilbert additionally, he didn't feel quite as safe around the ones with pierced lips, huge hoodies… So he apologized beforehand, as he leveled in behind Gilbert, his hand at the corner of his shirt. Needy.

Smiling. Gilbert hated the teenagers for making Matthew squirm – but yet, he smiled.

The group passed. They were listening to European music, too loud for clarity and too foreign for comprehension, so they didn't even bat an eye at them.

Time to make fun! "Come on, Matthew, get a backbone. Not everyone on the street's gonna hurt you," Gilbert informed him, casually. Trying not to put an arm around him; reassure him.

This was the breaking point, he realized. Make it or break it. Win it or lose it.

The emotions were getting too high; he could feel it between them. Separating them, bringing them together.

"Well, one of them eventually will," Matthew trilled, his nerves on end. Ever since the one gangster had flipped them the bird on the way there, he was sure that he had a face not cut out for the city.

He didn't want to go home. He just didn't want to be there.

"Not as long as I'm with ya," Gilbert assured, ensuring his presence beside him. "Come on. Calm down. This is excitement in its finest! The mix of languages, cultures… all put together peacefully. Like a puzzle, or a pie… or… whatever the metaphor is."

"Simile," Matthew corrected. That much he'd learned from Mrs. Héderváry. That much respect he could give to her by using what she'd bother to teach him. (Though he'd known the difference since third grade.) "And what do you mean 'peacefully'? Every group is… segregated! We're probably the only two of different cultures mixing together."

"Such a bold claim for someone who's been here less than two hours," Gilbert said to him.

"Well, when I'm wrong, you can –"

"Excuuuuse me? Bo~oys?"

They stopped. They froze. They ceased to move. The voice called out to them from a creepy alleyway; first they singularly believed it was a voice in their heads. But one look, one shared connection between their eyes and they knew – it wasn't in their imagination.

"Bo~oys! Don't tell me boys as cute as you are deaf." They could hear the pout that ended her statement. A wink at the corner of her eye.

Matthew was reluctant; on the tip of his tongue he had, _"Let's continue on… Continue on the way we are…"_

But the voice seemed to wrap around Gilbert's hand and make him walk toward it.

And Matthew didn't want to be alone.

"Curiosity killed the cat," Matthew quoted morosely at him, and watched as his words of warning bounced on the shoulder Gilbert shrugged.

This was what he had been fearing. This. When Gilbert would finally succumb into his confidence, and take risks at the expanse of 'having a good time' or 'living life to the fullest'… or whatever the heck they were doing would be called.

Matthew believed that just driving there had been the adventure; he was done. Tired of the risks. He needed a rest, he needed a place without dangerous inhabitants, without mysterious women, he needed…

"Well, then I guess I'm lucky I'm no feline." He continued the descent into unfamiliar territory. A girlish giggle was resounding off the narrow walls, leading him on. Coaxing. More giggling.

"Just a little closer," she purred; evidence supporting that she could see them, while she was blind to them. Matthew was unnerved.

And then, the alleyway threw them for a loop. It suddenly jutted off to the side, creating a box-like room with three walls; situated within the closed-off space was a rotted table (relying on only three of its four legs) that supported a package of sorts. There was the woman, sitting behind it; she was without the luxury of a chair, resting on an unopened crate instead.

The woman was petite, but held herself high. Owning the most cocksure smirk to cover her pale lips, she seemed aware of every thought flicking through their heads, every passage of emotion that sailed past their eyes…

Her eyes were hazel.

"Just…" Matthew was figuring out the mixture of geometry and physics in his head; letting his nose scrunch as an outpour. "Just how did you manage to see us if we were – "

"Never saw ya. Just figured if I kept screaming that out, eventually some pair would come by. And look, I was right." She grinned like a cat. Matthew was the canary.

Gilbert was the opened cage…

"What kind of popsicle stand do you have back here?" Gilbert questioned of her, running his eyes over the area, tapping his knuckles on the table, keen on the wrapped-up package in front of her.

She noticed. "Oh, this?" She took her thin fingers, put them to use; trailed them over the silk appetizingly. "I'll let you look inside for a little fee~."

Matthew chuckled. Dryly. So there weren't just scam artists in his town… they seemed to be everywhere…

Gilbert lost his interest; like that. "Oh, you're one of those. No thanks, lady. Have fun by yourself back here." He pressured a movement of lips; not of appeasement, but acceptance. Touching Matthew's shoulder, and using the slight contact to turn him around, Gilbert said, "Come on, Matthew."

They were walking out from the alleyway – not as scary, when they were facing the light and they could identify the foreign behind them – side-by-side, thinking it was over right when her voice froze them:

"Did you say…? Matthew?"

There was no omnificent or flirtatious undertone. It was a curiosity, pure and simple, but it drove a knife through the cat's last life.

"Yes, Matthew," Gilbert repeated, turning his head back toward her, Matthew remaining as still as a rock facing the street; "What about it? It's a pretty common name."

"No, it's just that… I heard that there was some boy named Matthew that went missing recently, matching his description… and there was someone else that was with – "

"Where in the hell did you hear that?" Gilbert's timbre reached a new high. Record high. Hot as the plains in summertime. "You live behind a _building_! You couldn't of…" But his voice faded, confliction clear in his features.

Matthew wasn't a rock anymore; he was ice, chilled to the core with just a covering of shock to prevent him from leaking. He was… missing.

He was missing.

Again.

The woman shrugged a shoulder, her fingers interlaced before her. The movement caused the brown tides of her hair to overflow, falling into her face. "Never said I lived here. But anyway – "

"I don't know what you've heard," Gilbert said quickly, his voice as harsh as gaseous cement. Scraping against everything that heard him. Trying his best to protect; his hand was hovering over Matthew's shoulder blades. He finished, "But whatever it is, it isn't him." There was a silence, in which she stared at him critically; and, fearing that she could see right through him, he clicked his tongue loudly against the roof of his mouth. "It isn't him. Come on…" Again, he tapped the stationary form beside him, persuading it into movement.

When they were back onto the street, Gilbert began rambling; because he figured, if he rambled, then there would be no time to make any sense of what the woman had said. "Pfft. She must be off her meds or something. Seriously. They let just anyone walk around the streets now adays… Anyway." He couldn't help but experience an increased heart rate. It pounded over and over in his chest, imagining it as a personal punch to the gut each time. Stupid, stupid, stupid, it said. "We'll – " He was given no chance to response; his silent partner finally began to let syllables past his lips.

"Funny…" Matthew said humorlessly, shaking his head, withholding his fists in his pockets. Keeping his eyes trained on the sidewalk. Feeling the world pass by… "There were so many times in which…" His voice ceased to rise over the nonexistent wind's; but nonetheless, he continued, Gilbert straining to hear every word. "In which my parents would send out a call to the police, saying I went missing, when I was only at the library or the store or… somewhere simple." He shook his head. "Sure, sure, I appreciated them being so concerned, but… Well, anyway, I just find it funny that the one time I actually do go missing… the one time I actually _do_ go missing…" He raised his head, extended his spine into something resistant. The worst was behind him; the danger was permeating into his pores. Exciting him. "They still bother looking for me."

Silence. Gilbert had breached a level of discomfort, his fingertips pressed to his scalp. He didn't know what to say.

Matthew sighed, losing his pretense of melancholy and looking into Gilbert's eyes. "Don't you think they would have gotten tired of me by now?"

Presently, a wind conjured up. It passed through the hair on their heads, patting them down. Gilbert released a heavy, but smooth breath from between his lips. There was the problem, right there; it radiated from Matthew's eyes, wet and meek. "Oh Matthew," he tried, the streets were getting emptier, despite the late morning. "Listen to yourself. You can't keep thinking like that. Look! We're in a new city. A new, fresh city. You can be whoever you want to be, here." He spread his arms wide.

Matthew was silent, mulling over what had been spoken while he chewed his lip. Glancing anywhere but Gilbert, he was thinking about how he had so much fun imitating other people. Taking their personalities, and using it to their advantage. Maybe he could use them to make a whole new person… "You really think I should change?"

The vulnerability broke his heart. "No, definitely not. No. I'm saying that you should be you," his words flowed like an avalanche; "because that's who I like best."

"Like… best?" His pale eyebrows pushed together. A timid frown pulled down his lips. Had he heard that right?

Gilbert pressed his lips, rolling his eyes to the sky, heart rate increasing. He tried to figure something else to say… to justify…

Despite himself, he managed to read into that. Read into it all. Come to a conclusion, and let himself feel light. So Matthew morphed, a bit, into his brother, because his brother had told him, "_But they love each other! Shouldn't they get their happy ending?_"

Yes, shouldn't they?

Matthew remained staring at the ground, the toes of his shoes very, very interesting. "I like you best, t-too," he stuttered.

Matthew expected, you know, a moment of silence and then a quiet clarification. A confirmation. Something spoken that would surely connect them together forever – and while he was quite the romantic, he knew Gilbert wasn't.

Gilbert chuckled, a low, raspy vibration in the base of his throat. He put his arm around Matthew's shoulders, and brought him close. "No one could ever get tired of you," he said.

* * *

**A/N**: Longest chapter, I think. I just need it to show exactly who else is going to be in Hetalian for the climax. There was nothing more I could do. And the long wait is because my computer broke, and I just recently got it fixed. I'm really sorry…

**Song for this chapter**: **_Love Save the Empty_ by Erin McCarley**. :)

**Preview for next chapter**:

_There was a tall figure, cloaked and whistling, coming toward them. At first, Gilbert was sure it was a stranger – but then that stranger raised his head, flashed the most familiar smile, and Gilbert lost his breath._


	17. Prelude 12:21

"Just calm down. Please, calm down."

"How can I calm down? They freakin'… my… they… urgh!"

"Mrs. Héderváry," Alfred tried calmly, "why hadn't you paid the fines?"

"Because they just – "

"Didn't you know you'd be towed? Even _I_ knew that."

[-]

"Feliks, we're lost."

"Nu-uh."

"Um, yeah-huh. See, look at that sign right there in front of us. What does it say?"

"Liet…"

"What does it say?"

"…'The Land of the Sea'…"

"That's not even a city! And we live nowhere _near_ the ocean. Ha, and look, the sign even says 'In the middle of nowhere – '"

"No it doesn't."

"–'Population: four'. Population of four, Feliks. Population of four."

"…Hey, do you think this is anywhere near Hollywood?"

[-]

"You cannot _still_ be drunk."

"Maybe I am, maybe I aren't." Vash stuck out his tongue, not drunk, but completely annoyed.

"Idiot. Anyway, get in the car. My wife's supposed to be coming – "

"Ha!"

"Oh, shut up. – up here in a couple hours. I've got to go and see her."

"No, ya don't."

"Vash…"

"Huh?"

"Where are my car keys?"

"…_That's_ what those were?"

* * *

**A/N**: Because things are funny and light before they go horribly wrong. And sometimes you have to get rid of the extra baggage!

Prelude 12/21 by AFI


	18. Evil Has Never

Sunny afternoons were well enough by themselves. Add in a slightly chilly breeze, an unpopulated street, and someone's kind hand in yours then… Well, this sunny afternoon had the potential to become one of his favorites.

Matthew's cheerful disposition focused on his sensation of touch. Everything he could feel. The sun, the cement… wind intertwining in hair, the easy feeling of his stomach despite its unconventional lunch. Pleasantries, he thought, these were pleasantries. Things that made you really, really happy but occur every day. Or should occur every day. Things that shouldn't be taken for granted. Ever. Matthew assured himself that, no, he wouldn't take this for granted.

He lifted his head to tell these exact thoughts to Gilbert, when something else caught his eye.

There was a tall figure, cloaked and whistling, overbearing and dark, coming toward them. Gilbert assessed the walk, fast and sure, head down and walking with a purpose. He was satisfied to figure out that this stranger offered no threat. Well, Gilbert thought it was a stranger – but then that stranger raised his head, flashed the most familiar smile, and Gilbert lost his breath.

He didn't stop to think how odd it was that this stranger knew exactly where he'd be, and that he'd be looking directly at him. He was simply blinded by that smile, those eyes, and the innocent feeling of safety that came with those human aspects.

"Nah… I can't believe it," he gasped, squinting into the sunlight and shading his eyes with his hand. He let go of Matthew with the other, and nudged his shoulder distractedly. Despite the plea for attention, he wasn't offering clarification. He just repeated, "I can't believe it."

"What?" Matthew asked of him, looking ahead without any expectations. He'd figured Gilbert had seen another German place he was excited over, like when they'd been arriving. He awaited an excited shout, the grip to come back on his hand, and suddenly they'd be running down the street no care in the world, off to an old bar or something. Like in an old movie.

He was half right.

Presently he was all alone, watching Gilbert run ahead. Without him. No explanation, just that anticipated excited shout. And now he was staring at the back of Gilbert's body, listless and feeling kind of in the dark. "Can't believe what, Gilbert?" he called after him, purposely quietly; one of those comments he sees people on television making. One that no one hears but himself and his nonexistent audience.

Though Matthew couldn't be heard, Gilbert's laughter rocked the whole street. He was approaching the tall figure, which had stopped and tipped his hat low. Oh, but that couldn't hide that magnificent grin! Gilbert finally got to the person, and embraced him in a bear hug, his laughter bordering on hysterical. "How've you been, old buddy old pal?"

"Who're you calling old?" answered the person, joking, and his hat had fallen to the ground. "Still have all the excitement of your youth, _sí_?"

"Of course," Gilbert boasted. He released the man, and just stared at him, his grin frozen to his mouth like paste. "Wow. How long has it been, Toni?"

Antonio, his shoulders relaxed and posture returning to a friendlier stance, bent to pick his hat from the ground. "About five years," he answered. The response was readily given.

"I thought you went back to Spain. You're a long way from home, buddy." Gilbert laughed. A self-assured laugh. Easily, anyone could tell that everything in his life was going well, just by the way he laughed. Gilbert was at his high, at the tip of the rollercoaster.

Rubbing his fingers over the brim of his hat, rather incessantly, Antonio's smile quivered just a bit. He didn't seem as confident, or even nearly as excited. "I – I came back," he replied. His eyes were looking somewhere else.

"Oh, well, it's great to have ya, no matter the reason!" Gilbert needed to shift his weight to one foot, what with all of his energy as high as the clouds but his body staying still as stone. "So what've you been doing all this time?" he asked, fidgeting more by scratching behind his ear. "Why didn't you at least call or something?"

"Lost your… lost your…" Antonio stopped mid-thought, a shade coming over his eyes. That was just because he had placed the hat back over his head, leaving only his chin in the sun. He looked dark, melancholy. Suddenly the shadows under his eyes were huge, bulging packets of skin under his eyelashes, tainted in purple. And wrinkles. Wrinkles were everywhere. The eyes, mouth, nose; there were even folds near his ears, none of it matching the light that was hiding inside of him. Gilbert was about to question it, both their smiles having succumbed to the seduction of frowns, when Antonio pointed quizzically and asked, "Is this your friend? He's been watching you the past few minutes." He attempted a tiny smirk. But it didn't look real. It was a jumpy twitch of muscle and then it was gone.

Gilbert's eyebrows pushed together, turning around and fully expecting to beat someone's face in; ask them what they were starin' at. Then he saw the face and berated himself for ever wanting to smash it. "Oh, Toni, wait until you meet him." He nearly cursed, then; there was such affection in his voice. A clear, honest affection, that Antonio, with a deeper frown, assessed.

Mathew pouted for the heck of it, as Gilbert came running back to him. He crossed his arms, trying to look impatient. He'd seen Gilbert's expression on Alfred's face so many times before. Like when they'd walk to school, before they got the car - though the car by all means didn't make anything better - and Matthew would stop to fix his bag and Alfred would just keep walking. They'd meet up in front of the school later, Matthew cross and Alfred wearing the face Gilbert was now.

"I didn't forget about you, birdie, I swear."

"Uh-huh."

"I swear! But Matthew, you've really got to meet a friend of mine..." His eyes, normally so dark and cloudy, were alight as if by fireworks. It took Matthew's breath away, to put it simply. Even in their most joyful moments, his eyes hadn't been so radiant and rosy. His face even held lightness, like that of a young... child's...

Matthew was pulled toward the stranger, like he'd imagined earlier. This time he was a little more apprehensive, because this stranger obviously held some sort of... Some sort of... Some sort of, well, power over Gilbert to resort him to such a vulnerable happiness.

"Matt, I'd like you to meet the one and only Antonio Vasquez! He's gotten me through so much during my rocky childhood."

Rocky childhood?

"Nice to meet you, Matt," grinned Antonio. Suddenly he looked restricted, almost pained, nothing like the sunny disposition that had shined from far away.

"N-nice to meet you, too, sir."

"Please. Call me T-Toni," he allowed.

Antonio wasn't trying to mock Matthew's stutter, though it sounded that way. Matthew was taken aback, but Antonio, once again, was staring out into the distance.

Despite the heat, Antonio did not relinquish the heavy tan overcoat he wore. It remained tightly tied around his midsection, trapping the heat within. Additionally his black slacks were very thick, and ran all the way down to the tips of his toes; what heavy clothing, for such light weather. Antonio's hair was curled in front of his eyes, frizzed and wet with sweat. It was a beautiful brown, but the brilliance was distorted by the look on his face. There was a moment that he looked so conflicted that Matthew forgot of the offence and asked:

"What's wrong?"

Antonio laughed, gleefully; Matthew was sure he'd just been mistaken in his diagnosis of melancholy. "_No_, _nada_, Matt. Thought I saw someone else I knew – I guess not. But imagine! Meeting two old friends in one day! I would have all the luck in the world, _sí_?"

"All the luck in the world, right," Gilbert echoed quickly. He steered the conversation in a direction he wanted to travel, as they began to walk aimlessly down the sidewalk. He stood in-between Antonio and Matthew, his right arm around his long-lost buddy. "So, Toni. What have you been up to the past five years? …Wow, was it really that long?"

When Antonio came forth with nothing but a struggled expression, Gilbert asked, "When you left you said you were going straight to Spain, to start a new life and never come back. What happened to your pipedream?"

Antonio was still smiling. He couldn't seem to relax his face anymore. "I… Um… I was, well, my family's arms weren't as welcoming as I thought! Turns out they're still pretty mad at me. So I… Um… I came back here to this town. And finally opened up that restaurant I told you about." He ended on a high note, pride seeping into his tone.

"Nu-uh."

"Yes-huh."

Gilbert's arms were wild birds, tangling together in the skies with their excitement. "No way! That is so totally awesome! And I don't say that every day!"

Antonio and Matthew shared a look from behind Gilbert's back. As Antonio triple tsk'd and looked back to their mutual friend, Matthew felt a connection that he normally never had with strangers. With one look, now they realized something that linked them. And that link was flailing enthusiastically, basically dancing down the sidewalk.

"What'd you call it? What'd you call it?"

Additionally, Matthew was astounded on how correct his first assumption had been. In face of their older companion, Gilbert was in the mindset of no more than ten years old. Jumping around, pleading excitedly, eyes wide… He thought back to the fleetingly-mentioned 'rocky childhood', wondering if Antonio had stepped in as some sort of surrogate father (or brother?) during those times for Gilbert. Even if it wasn't so, Matthew felt a surging respect toward Antonio; it, too, was bordering on fondness.

"Please say you named it after me."

"_El Parche de Tomate_," Antonio accented, his eyes closed, lips moving as if the words were as sweet as candy. "Or, The Tomato Patch."

Gilbert hesitated, letting his smile drop in uncertainty. He glanced at his companion with worried, tired eyes. "…Do you only serve tomatoes? Really, I know you love the things, but if you think you can run a business only selling those vegetables –"

"Fruits. They're fruits."

"Ignoring you. –then you're probably out of business by now."

Antonio shook his head. They reached the end of the block, and he didn't answer until they crossed the street.

Matthew was slightly puzzled, since he thought they'd be heading straight, toward the German places they'd seen like Gilbert had planned; Antonio had lead them left, and Gilbert was making no argument. He barely seemed to notice.

Matthew glanced back at the road they were leaving behind.

"No, I do not serve only tomatoes," Antonio corrected him. "You always think you know everything, don't you, _Niño_?" He affectionately scrubbed his fingers through Gilbert's hair; surprisingly Gilbert didn't snap or scold him for treating him childishly.

He just laughed.

"…I serve all kinds of things," Antonio continued, his voice slowing, reaching a kinder pace. "Everything you'd expect from a Spanish restaurant." He began naming a whole list of items, fast-paced and carelessly.

Gilbert stared at him blankly, and Matthew tried to dissect the language from his knowledge of French. He heard things that sounded like 'salad' 'soup' and 'bread', but nothing substantial.

Blinking, Gilbert informed him, "You know I understood not a word of that, right?"

"_Sí_," answered Antonio, cheerfully. "Nothing special, really," he continued, "so I add my own special spice and spirit to the place. People seem to enjoy it. And…" He grinned cheekily. "I have to admit. I do serve little tomatoes in a bowl for free for my customers!" And that put off their conversation for a while.

Until Antonio, hands in the outside pockets of his jacket, and his hat high on his head, asked pleasantly, "So what are you interested in, Matt? Enough about me."

Matthew smiled, still reeling at what a nice man Antonio was. "I… Well, I… I like hockey a whole lot."

Gilbert scoffed. "That's an understatement."

"Gil, shut up."

Antonio's eyes sparkled at their interaction.

"Oh! And I really like…" But Matthew stopped. Prematurely. Because Antonio had. Physically. He almost ran into his back. He looked up, watching Antonio's face with the sun in the background.

Matthew could tell what Antonio was grumbling under his breath, that while in Spanish, were definitely curses, foul ones at that. His face was contracted and firm, though he seemed to have trouble deciding on an emotion. He went from surprised, to frustrated, to panicked. Suddenly the air was hot and humid and the clouds had retreated, leaving the sun to bask down at them. Nothing else in the world mattered but the heat and the sidewalk and distant police sirens.

Gilbert nudged Antonio's arm, thoroughly confused with just a bit of concern that he tried to disguise under annoyance. "What're we stoppin' for?"

Antonio breathed heavily through his nose, his hands coming out of his pockets only to hide back into them again. His eyes flickered, sweat trickling down his cheek.

A little frightened, Matthew reflected that while Antonio was very kind, he was very strange. Mysterious, even. There didn't seem to be a straight thought in his head, as if he was juggling through many different subjects. Unfocused, preoccupied. Not the type of person he'd want as a role model through childhood, but if…

"Toni?" There was that voice again; emotional. Small. Afraid. Broken down to nothing more than a child's startled whisper in the dark.

All was silent. All was still.

Swallowing, Antonio stretched his lips in an attempt to smile, but it only looked like an obscure grimace. "Why don't we go see _mi restaurante_, now, _sí_? It's right over… It's right over… Follow me, now." The urgency that had crept into his voice alarmed both of his acquaintances; they were even more frightened when he grabbed them both by the arms – he was hiding pure muscle under that jacket, his strength was impeccable – and lead them right into incoming traffic.

Wind swept through his hair, carrying along the screeching of tires and the honks of cars.

Matthew wasn't sure, but he thought he shouted out and Gilbert surely started flipping out. After this shiver of surprise, Matthew was obediently dragged, frozen to the very core with fear, but Gilbert wiggled and protested, his own fear making him frenzied. But even he couldn't shake Antonio's iron grip. Antonio's face was also as plain as metal, nothing but the sweat running down his face any indication of his discomfort.

"The hell?" Gilbert screeched, frantic, his voice a few octaves higher, when they stepped onto the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. Happily, there hadn't been any more cars past the initial few, so they'd avoided imminent death, but they couldn't disarm the fear that the threat of death had given them. "Toni!" He tried to call for his friend's attention, his voice cracking and loud. They were standing beside one another. "The hell!"

Antonio looked back toward the sidewalk they had vacated. He was bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. It had been a wild endeavor, indeed, but with Antonio's muscular stature, that couldn't be what had taken his breath.

Adrenaline, Matthew suddenly realized. It was washing over Antonio and leaving behind a broken man.

Then Antonio took a final, deep breath and said, "_Mi restaurante_, now, _sí_?" with his voice too light to match his demeanor. He started walking, obviously expecting the two of them to follow without hesitation.

Gilbert gave himself a moment to hold his hand over his chest, and murmur to himself things about 'damn Spaniards always being so empty-headed'.

Matthew didn't follow initially, either. He looked back to the other side of the street… And whatever brief sense of relief he had felt abandoned him. There was a group walking down the other sidewalk, not noticing him, but he knew them; it was the gang that had leered at him and gave him the bird not moments after he had arrived in this town. Trying to remember what Gilbert had told him about not everything being out to get him, he wondered if maybe Antonio had seen them coming. And had steered them away, knowing they were trouble? Maybe he should… thank him?

"Gilbert…"

"Damn it… Antonio, wait up!" Gilbert screamed, over Matthew's soft voice, to Antonio's retreating back.

Antonio didn't stop, not even for a second.

Gilbert looked to Matthew. "Come on, Mattie. We have to catch him before he walks himself into traffic. Again." He took a finger and used it to draw circles around his ear. Loopy-loops. Loopy, crazy.

Matthew did follow Gilbert, as they ran to catch up with their older friend; but not without another glance to the street they were leaving behind.

[-]

"Antonio, please. At least while we've got someone else along, could you try and focus? Do you even know where you're going?" Gilbert had to check. Antonio had claimed to be leading them to his restaurant. But they'd been walking steadily for at least five minutes now; no stops, no words. He had noticed Matthew opening his mouth a few times to try conversation, but he'd never followed through. Whatever Antonio was thinking about, it was taking all of his concentration.

"1947 East –"

"I don't need the exact address," Gilbert mumbled, sourly, thus proven wrong. But Antonio's voice was dull, having lost all pretense of delight. He wasn't even trying to fake happiness, which Gilbert knew, unfortunately, Antonio tended to do. He was just… serious. It wasn't a tone Antonio often used… Gilbert had only heard it once before, when –

Matthew said, "This is it, then…"

He stared up at a building with nothing more than a blue door as its façade. Or, maybe that wasn't giving it enough credit – it was also covered in black paint that was crumbling on the sides. No sign, no neon letters like all of the other businesses. This place just looked run-down, deserted, forgotten.

Gilbert laughed sarcastically. "Oh, ha-ha, another trick on Gullible Gilbert?" he crooned. "You really haven't changed, have you, Toni?" He shook his head, anger rattling about inside only to fade. He had never been able to get mad at Antonio. "Well, Gullible Gilbert does not believe this one." Turning to face Antonio, Gilbert actually appeared hurt, but also extremely sympathetic. "Toni, if you don't… if you don't have a business, that's fine. Hey, we all have things we wanted to get done but didn't. I still have to fold landry from three years ago." He gave a reassuring smile. "But, Tonio, you didn't have to lie to me. I know you talked so much about your big dream, about opening a Spanish restaurant… But really, it's fine. I'm not a little kid anymore. If you did something else with your life, then I don't mind and we can stop playing these games now –"

"Stop right there," Antonio interrupted. Face as bleak as death. "This isn't another one of my games."

Maybe he had changed, Gilbert thought suddenly. He voice was dark and deep, nothing like the sunny tone it was supposed to have. Maybe his life after Gilbert had thrown him for a tough one and had left behind a listless, joyless Antonio. This struck fear into the very center of his heart, and he pleaded, "Toni…?"

Antonio, dead-faced, untied his long overcoat but did not try to remove it from his shoulders. He adjusted his hat, and brushed hair away from his eyes. "I'm serious, here." Serious. So it was true! "I just want. To show you. My restaurant."

Where was that little Spanish quip? Antonio spoke Spanish as much as he could, trying to weave words and phrases into conversations in a way that people could comprehend. But nothing. He didn't even have an accent, speaking English like an epitaph.

Gilbert attempted to laugh sarcastically again, but his fright shattered it until it was just a nervous giggling. "Earth to Antonio, earth to –"

Another thing; Antonio never used to interrupt. But right now, it seemed to be his favorite pastime.

"Go on in, it's a surprise," Antonio tried, smiling. This smile was so vivid that it made Gilbert even more unsure.

"But I –"

"Let's just go in, 'kay, Gil?" Matthew asked, gritting through his teeth. The look in Antonio's eyes reminded him of one he'd seen long ago, and it was stirring up feelings within him that he'd rather not re-experience.

When he and his brother had first been adopted, and their birth parents had tried to hunt them down. The desperation, the fear when they'd arrived on their doorstep; they had been no more than three years old, so the grown-ups were speaking words they couldn't understand didn't want to think about. They never talked about it, made sure it never came up. But this look. The look in Antonio's eyes was the same one his birth father had, and he knew this for sure because it was the only thing he could vividly remember. At the end of his rope, torn between what the courts had said and his own paternal yearnings. He'd been an alcoholic with a temper, their mother a drug addict with a few too many bruises. All of this was a deep, dark pool at the bottom of Matthew's heart.

If he could rid of these unresolved feelings by entering a building at the instruction of a conflicted Spaniard, then so be it.

Logic was nowhere to be found.

"Mattie, don't tell me you're – "

"Listen to your friend," Antonio interjected.

Matthew opened the door for Gilbert, nodding his head minutely.

Scowling, mumbling, Gilbert crossed the threshold, making sure Matthew was right behind him by taking hold of the sleeve of his jacket.

Antonio lingered outside, and that moment of solitude jump-started their hearts.

Especially when they noted that the building wasn't as deserted as they thought it'd been.

Just as dark, but not as deserted.

There were at least two pairs of eyes staring at them through the dim lighting; one hazel, the other blue. Then there was a muted shuffling of feet behind them. More people. People everywhere. People whispering. Someone moaned a name, another made a strangled sound. The dust in the room collided in the air and thus was all they were breathing. Everyone. Everyone, everywhere. Breathing the same dank, dirty air until someone forgot how to breathe.

It was almost set up as a surprise party, except when the lights came on, they didn't yell surprise.

They screamed, "Police!"

No streamers or cake, nor presents or gifts; but the surprise really was there. If you were watching Gilbert's face, you could see his eyebrows morph into his hairline, and Matthew as his knees buckled underneath him.

After the first shout, it broke the dam, and there were many more, all at the same time:

"Toni," screamed Gilbert.

"Matthew," Arthur sighed in relief; Francis added in a "_Mathieu_" with the same emotion.

Gilbert turned around. "Ludwig!" he screeched.

Ludwig almost smiled. But not quite.

Feliciano shouted "Police" again, because he'd missed it the first time around, when Ludwig and Antonio had yelled it. Been too busy turning on the lights.

Then there was silence. And then Matthew could feel his head filling up with absolutely nothing at all. His head was light as a cloud, rising up, pulling him away from reality… He didn't want to deal with this… He couldn't deal with this… He wasn't here right now… No, don't worry, you're not here right now…

All at once he was pulled back to Earth. Someone ripped the wings from his back and now he was crash-landing. Gilbert had grabbed him around the neck, and pulled him to his chest. Matthew mistaken it for a hug at first, a protective gesture to hide them from the shame; Matthew quickly realized it was a chokehold and there was, in fact, great pressure against his neck.

This was when he forgot how to breathe.

He mouthed, "Gilbert?" His surprise was too much to manage an actual sound. It was the final exclamation of nouns, for the moment.

From his slightly lowered point of view, Matthew took this moment to gauge what was around him, time slowing and sounds mutating. (Gilbert was shouting something, but it was just a garble of reverberations in Matthew's ears.)

Two police officers, one large and one small, were standing many feet in front of him. The shortest one, close to the wall, must have turned on the lights. They had both been pleasant, pleased, at first, seeing them alive and well, seemingly willing to just help them; but with Gilbert's sudden change in movement, they'd drawn their guns.

This scared everything out of him.

And then there was his parents, standing together and behind the police officers. They, too, had been all smiles when they'd first entered, but now that the police had pulled guns, they pulled on horrified expressions. The smaller police officer moved to urge them backward, but Francis kept trying to push him out of the way and get at his son, armed to the teeth with French curses.

Some of them reminded him of Antonio's.

Finally the larger police officer stared him down and his parents stood there, frightened but mute.

Then there was a presence next to his parents. Someone Matthew had never seen before. He was extremely tall, wore a white scarf, and had silver hair. He wasn't a police officer, for he was not wearing the uniform. But he hadn't made a noise, so Matthew had no idea who he was. The creepy smile the stranger wore did nothing to ease him.

Finally, a shadow over his head indicated that Antonio was standing full-force in the open doorway, tall and menacing, casting a silhouette over them all like the hero in a Western movie. His shadow also showed that he had a gun in his hand and was pointing in Matthew's direction.

All of this he had sunken in within a second. Matthew blinked, and brought himself to his current predicament. Time was back to normal. He could hear. He could see.

He could feel, feel the bruises hiding underneath his skin.

He patted Gilbert's arm twice, flashing back to the moment when Gilbert had taken him into this same hold when Matthew had discovered the pair of bird pajamas in the back of his closet. Playful. A tender warning; _"If you tell anyone about this, you're dead!"_

Matthew panicked.

He hadn't told a soul.

Honestly, he hadn't.

Kumajirou didn't even know.

But Gilbert didn't release him; didn't smile and say, _"I'm just kidding, birdie. I could never hurt you."_ (Lies, his mind reminded him.)

His veins were tight again his skin with the force he had on Matthew's neck. Matthew would bet his own veins were throbbing, too.

The largest police officer had his intimidating stare on Gilbert's face. He adjusted his grip on his weapon, also altering his stance. "Gilbert, what in the world are you doing?" Thus began their first attempt at what Matthew had seen on television: negotiation. "We're just trying to bring you home, safe."

This was the moment Matthew realized he was a hostage.

"No, just shut up! Everybody shut up!" Gilbert cried, shaking his head. His hair was obscuring his wild eyes. "What in the world am I doing? What in the world are you doing! What are you doing here? Everybody! I demand an answer!"

"…We're just trying to bring you, and Matthew, home, safe," Ludwig repeated, slower.

Gilbert's nose twitched, unnoticeably. He was detecting something – someone – else. "T-Toni," he trembled; "this is pretty crappy restaurant you've got running here."

Antonio was silent.

"R-Really, you just let a-anyone in," Gilbert continued. "But enough with these games. I said enough with these games! Why did you bring us here?"

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Antonio said, "I was told to lead you to this premises, where we could safely detain the both of you and find out if you were alright. Are you alright?" There was no sugar to coat the words. No tomatoes to sweeten its taste. It went down hard and cold, scratching and leaving marks.

"So what, you just use your relationship with me to… to manipulate me? To get me into this little trap? You know what, Toni, go to hell!"

"Gil, please…" Matthew tried with his voice tinier than his confidence at the moment. Stars were beginning to form.

Gilbert told him smoothly, "Shut up, Matthew."

No teasing, there, no, not at all. Just pure apathy. None of the love he thought would always be there – no understanding or comfort. Those pleasantries. (More lies.) Matthew really felt as if he was being held by a stranger.

This is when the panic set in.

He sought out his father's reassuring eyes, as his breaths started to come far and short. Francis, while distracted and not much for reassurance did manage to give his favorite son a wink and a mouthing of, "_Je t'aime beaucoup, mon fils_".

"_M-Moi aussi_," Matthew tried, tears coming into his eyes; this was all he could manage before the hold tightened.

"What the hell is going on?" Gilbert shouted in anguish. "So I've got my old best friend stabbing me in the back – you hear that back there, Toni? – my brother pulling a fast one on me at the front and I… I…"

Ludwig knew his brother well enough to know he was becoming so overcome by emotion that he couldn't talk. This was the time for him to speak. "Gilbert, we would like to know what you're trying to accomplish here. We want to bring both you and Matthew home in one piece. We understand that you both must be going through something complicated, but we're telling you that if you'll just let us help, we can sort it all out. We all want you safe."

Safe. Safe seemed to be the key word here. S-A-F-E. Four letters. Secure. Assured. Free. Easy. Easy, now—

"Now, why are you hurting Matthew?"

"M-Matthew is not the problem here," Gilbert stuttered.

Here the grip loosened. Matthew swallowed such a huge gulp of air that it sounded as if he'd broken through the top of a body of water. Busted free from the sea he'd been drowning in.

All eyes were on him. Just for a second.

Gilbert's tactics were changing. Instead of playing the out-of-control, overemotional phsyco, he simply played the overemotional teenager. A feat he played so well, as he let tears fall from his eyes and a tremble to pull over his shoulders. "It's… It's you!"

The accusation lacked the sting; without the use of either of his hands, Gilbert could only throw the blame with his voice. And it was not landing.

"Who?" Ludwig prompted. "Me?"

"Not you, you idiot! Him!"

They were all enveloped by the bombshell when they saw his head nod toward Arthur.

"M-Me?"

Francis took a step back in surprise.

"Yes you, you idiot!"

"Surely you must…"

"Gilbert." This voice froze everyone in the room; the only one who hadn't spoken a word had stepped out of his silence and addressed the teenager very darkly. "What did I say about family issues staying within the family?"

Ludwig recoiled as if hit. Suddenly he was wide-eyed and trembling just as bad as his brother. He managed to remain stationary, keep that gun steady, Ludwig! but his lips moved as he talked to himself.

Feliciano looked over to him in concern. Francis did the same, but toward his husband.

Arthur was pale.

With all of the distractions floating about the room, only Antonio was not falling for the ploys and instead watched his former friend, his former buddy, take a step backward.

His police instincts took over his logical reasoning. Antonio hurried forward. Normally in this situation, he'd take the man by the neck and throw him to the ground. But maybe his instincts weren't quite up to speed, because he only grabbed the back of Gilbert's shirt and pulled him – Matthew included – toward him. His gun, which would normally be right between a criminal's eyes, was unthreatening by his side.

"Gilbert, this isn't funny. We are not playing with you."

"Is that all you ever think about? Games?" Gilbert questioned. Antonio didn't like the look in his eyes, or the scowl that had taken over his mouth. He frowned. "Well then try this on for size!"

Gilbert resorted to a childhood tactic: kicking Antonio's legs out from under him and running past him. This time, he hasn't giggling as he dashed away with half of Antonio's tomato stash, getting only a few feet away until the longer legs caught up to him. No, he was completely silent, despite the grunts he emitted at having to pull a limp Matthew, and was completely outside.

Secure. Assured. They'd skipped over the first part and just dashed through to Freedom.

_"Mathieu!"_

[-]

Matthew felt the sunshine. The sunshine felt nice, falling over his face and stroking his hair. He could breathe, now that he was out of the stuffy building. Also there was a breeze. He'd always loved breezes, especially these cold ones. They relieved his skin from the sun's fiery touch, filling him with a cool sense of relief. Like jumping into a pool. Breezes felt like jumping into a pool, in the middle of summer, completely unconcerned with the depth or temperature of the water. Just that feeling of…

Falling…

"Get your face out of the damn dirt! I can't carry you, Matt. Pick up your feet, goddamn it all!"

It was Gilbert's voice, but not his words nor his face that he was greeted with when he was on his feet again. He whimpered, "Gilbert, why are you –"

"Just run, damn it! Run! Don't you love the taste of this freedom?"

Their feet were fast, against the dusty Earth. They pulled up clouds of dirt but not a care in the world. Gilbert's hand was rough and forceful on Matthew's, but it was the only thing keeping Matthew from tripping over that same dirt again.

Also, there were echoes in the back of his head. More feet, following his own. They seemed to be going faster. And as he wasn't completely sane at the moment, Matthew was thinking about how he was never really good at footraces and how it wasn't fair they had more people on their team. It was just him and Gilbert! They had the whole –

"Watch where you're fucking walking!"

It seemed to be a pattern, Matthew falling. Good job, running right into someone with a dirty mouth. This time when he fell it was against concrete and it broke his glasses and the concrete, combined with the shards of glass, cut into his face. He left blood on the sidewalk, and it trickled down his neck as he was, once again, pulled to his feet.

But it wasn't by Gilbert.

No, these hands were warmer. Bigger, stronger.

Antonio turned him around. "Are you alright, kid?" His name had already been forgotten. His soft eyes radiated nothing but the upmost worry and compassion, making Matthew dizzy.

"Where's – Where's Gilbert?" Matthew asked, but no one answered him.

Antonio was staring at the person Matthew had run into. A very small, dark-haired man. Wait… He's the… he's that…. That leader of the… the leader of the…

Gang!

Matthew's throat conjured up a sound that was a mix of surprise and fear. The noise that came from Antonio's mouth was so much more shocking:

"Lovino?"

"Bastard," greeted the other man; this seemed to be their normal exchange, as they both broke into smiles in the same moment.

Until Lovino glanced over and noticed the pair of police officers running toward him. "Sh-shit," he mumbled, looking fully intent on fleeing, until something stopped him. "Is that -? Feli -?"

The police pair was less than half a block away when one of them suddenly stopped. "_Fratello_," the smaller one whispered, frozen in the middle of the road. He stood up straighter, as if his back was suddenly bothering him. Tears welled in his eyes.

The blonde officer would have reached Matthew and had him safely in his arms if he hadn't had to turn about to pull his partner out of traffic – and this untimely move proved to be the end of Matthew.

Antonio was watching Lovino, not noticing Matthew as he was grabbed; Ludwig was calming down Feliciano, not seeing the glass being pushed against Matthew's neck; his parents just couldn't run fast enough, and Gilbert's father wasn't running at all.

So now they were all gathered on the side of a barely busy road. Looking like a box of misfits dumped into the trash, they all stood with many visible expressions of dismay, all orientating themselves to the main attraction:

Gilbert and his pretty little hostage.

"…You're all… You're all going to take me seriously now, right? Now that I've got his tiny little thing of glass, suddenly whatever I have to say is all too important, huh?" He spoke slowly, laboriously, every word a pain to him. Adrenaline was causing his breaths to be short and weak. Gilbert held Matthew to his chest, one hand in his hair to hold them there, and another possessing a shard of glass from Matthew's shattered spectacles against Matthew's exposed neck. "The… the weapon really makes the man, huh?"

Francis was crying quietly, and Arthur looked as if he was bound to faint.

"Is that what you want? For us to listen to you?" Ludwig asked, forgetting about all the years he'd spent watching his brother grow up. He simply treated the teenager as a mentally deranged criminal, as all of the signs were pointing to, and acted accordingly. "Then go on, Gilbert. Talk to us."

Each individual breath could be tasted on the wind. Each trembling inhale, each delayed exhale…

The only thing that ruined the silence was Lovino's sudden muttering about an appointment and him scurrying off. No one moved to stop him, though both Antonio and Feliciano appeared to want to.

"I'll talk to you. I'll talk to each and every one of you," Gilbert started. His tale began:

"This was not how I wanted this to end up. I had a whole plan figured out… pretty amazing for me, huh? I barely know what I'll wear the next day, and yet I had a whole plan on how this was going to happen… I didn't think Toni worked for the police… Or that Luddy still did…" Both of the named men were given equally harsh glares. "So congrats for throwing everything into the fan, guys!"

Things began to speed up in Gilbert's mind. Everything was traveling a mile a minute, so he used his voice to match the soundtrack in his head. "Do you want to know of this plan of mine? Well, I'll tell ya, only if you're so keen to hear it. I thought this guy here" – his eyes flickered down to the mop of blonde hair shining up at him – "was nothing more than someone lost in the rain. Little did I know, he was the son of one of the family's worst enemies!"

Again, the taciturn figure appeared from nowhere and repeated, with more urgency, "Family business stays in the family."

Ludwig started to look sick again. He now knew what this was about, but not what Gilbert was going to do with it.

"Dad, I'm doing this for you! All for you, Dad," Gilbert explained in a manic laugh. He searched the small crowd and stared down Arthur. "When you decided to marry the frog, it absolutely crushed my father's heart! Down to smithereens. He hasn't loved since! Didn't love me, didn't love my mom; never loved Ludwig, or his mom either! We were just empty shells, trying to fill the holes in his life. Guess what? It didn't work!"

Those of Arthur's family had never heard hide or tail of this interesting development. Matthew was stunned, but Francis was shocked most of all. He stopped crying to watch the story unfold, emotionless.

"Gilbert…" His father tried to warn.

Gilbert smirked. "You hear that tone in his voice, gentlemen? Well, it never got better than that. He'd rather use his hands to talk sense into us."

"Gilbert!" Ludwig yelled. His voice was most masculine, powerful. His gun was shaking; his partner jumped, and, frightened by the storm in his eyes, moved away.

Some of the glee washed from Gilbert's countenance, looking to his brother, who had put up with all of the crap that went on at home without a sound until he'd moved out and abandoned him to the hands of an abusive emotional wreck. Gilbert held no respect for him, or sympathy, either. He simply sneered and looked toward Arthur, who had resorted to staring at the ground.

"You took the love out of my father," he said simply; "so I wanted to take what you loved away from you."

The dramatic silence that ensued let a single sound be heard:

A timid whining, like someone who was trying to cry but had run out of tears.

The last tears Matthew had sunk into Gilbert's shirt.

How had it all fallen to pieces? Everything he knew, everything he thought was the truth, were as whole as the shards of his glasses. He couldn't believe he had been nothing more than a toy, all along. Gilbert had used him, and used the most sensitive part of him: his heart. He could feel it in his chest, as he tried to stop hyperventilating, growing cold and sinking into an abyss.

How ironic, he thought to himself, numb; Gilbert, trying to bring love back into his father's and alternatively his own life, had ripped out all Matthew had.

Matthew's heart was crushed. To smithereens. He will never love again.

"We would have been gone," Gilbert said wistfully, maybe to Matthew, maybe to the group, maybe to no one; "and no one would have had any idea what I had really planned. Matthew would have been happy, I would have been happy. Arthur, you would have been as miserable and depressed as me and my dad, never knowing…" He cleared his throat. "And – "

"And what about the rest of us," said a smooth, calm voice, speaking underneath layers of emotion like thick slices of cake. "Hm? Did you think about what that would do to the rest of us?"

"Shut up, Frog!" Gilbert screeched, taking the shard of glass and pointing it lazily in Francis's direction. "It's just as well your fault!"

"No," Francis insisted; "no, I had no idea. I just thought – "

Arthur tried, "I – "

But Francis talked right over him, looking as if he hadn't even heard his voice. "- we hated each other for no reason. Just a neighborly dispute, is all, though we didn't live in the same neighborhood." He chuckled, dryly, and rubbed at his eyes. "I thought Arthur had started it as just another one of his petty feuds."

Ludwig's dissatisfaction was evident on his face, clear as a bright summer morning. He was the police officer here. He was the authority, he was the big brother. He shouldn't let a civilian get so involved… Where had all of his rules gone? All of those laws that he'd lived his whole life by and to the letter? He figured it was just because his father had mentioned family. And that brought back all the memories of failure, and the guilt he'd felt leaving his brother, alone, to face an unpredictable father.

He was the big brother.

Francis started to talk again. "But what did you think that would do to us? Taking away a precious part of our life? It's like… pulling the petals off a rose," he struggled; "without one piece it'll still go on to be a rose, but it'll never be the same. It's like a –"

Gilbert shouted, "Enough with you and your damn poetry! You've –"

"He's got a brother!" yelled Francis. He was taking steady steps forward, anger and grief propelling him. "He's got a brother at home. Taking him away would completely ruin him! Alfred's already run to alcohol and… and…" Broken, he stopped.

Brother at home, Ludwig realized. They'd be leaving a brother at home…

This news made Matthew's heart swell, like a nasty, nasty welt. Alfred. He hadn't even taken his empty-headed twin into consideration. Alfred was actually… hurting? And Matthew was causing that hurting? No, it couldn't be true! It was always the other way around! The… the last time Matthew had hurt Alfred was when he knocked over a box onto his head, and he'd apologized profusely. He had trouble imagining that he was hurting Alfred without even being there – _by_ not even being there. An inadvertent pain… Is that what Matthew had felt all along? That tug, that kept his heart trembling all throughout their adventure? Maybe it hadn't been nervousness or excitement. It had been something like that 'Twin Telepathy' crap that had been forced on them as children. Had the complete agony hiding in his chest been… Alfred's?

Pleasantries, Matthew reminded himself. Pleasantries like a brother's love were not to be taken for granted…

There was just that bit of anger Matthew felt, spawning from the need to protect his brother. The anger originated in his chest, so it left his head free to slow time down again and take notice of the subtle, but important things occurring all around him…

Arthur had gone as still as a rock, pain plastered to his face.

Ivan's shirt was stained with tears he would not let show.

Francis's resolution was gone, and he started to look afraid.

Antonio's hair had fallen into his face.

Feliciano's gaze faltered.

And Ludwig's fingers tightened around the trigger of his gun.

[-]

How could you shoot your own brother? Matthew was wondering, as a sudden blast broke the sound barrier between them. Was it anything like betrayal? Was shooting your own brother like leaving them without any notice or goodbye?

He was pondering which was worse – the physical or emotional pain of a shot to the head, as he threw himself backward and landed roughly on the grass behind him. Stains began to settle in shirt and pants, as he was trying to figure out who he was in these moments. He definitely wasn't himself. Involuntarily, he'd taken on someone else's personality. Someone else's bravery. Or how else had he managed to use his whole body to wrestle someone – years his senior, with a sharp object in his possession – to the ground?

It'd probably been one of the cop shows he'd watched over the years.

Matthew realized what a whirlwind his mind tended to be, as something was pulled off of him. He considered opening his eyes, and not relying on just what he felt, when something hugged him about the neck. He froze.

Maybe just once.

When Matthew opened his eyes, reality was suddenly sitting in front of him. In his vision was a head of long golden hair, the head it belonged to sunken deep in his shoulder. There were tears, a quiet crying. Arthur was in front of him, relief and guilt both taking control of his face. But Matthew tried his best to pay attention to the background of his vision… Antonio had thrown Gilbert into the ground, and was holding him there, hands behind his back.

Gilbert was talking. Matthew was trying his best to listen.

"I thought we were in this together!"

Tears framed his sight, then. "How can we be in it together when one of us is dead, Gilbert?" he cried out, being the voice of reason throughout the haze.

Gilbert, having trouble talking while Antonio had a knee in his back, was silent for a few moments before he asked:

"…You tackle like that on the hockey field, too, Matt?"

"It's an arena, Gil."

"Same difference."

Their words sound crisp and clear, breaking through all of the chaos.

"A-Anyway, this time it saved your life."

"Yeah, well, after I threatened yours I'm surprised you did it."

"I knew you had a good reason."

"Liar."

"Maybe."

Then Francis pulled himself together, and took his son's head in his hands, pulling away any eye contact. So that was the last he'll talk to Gilbert for quite some time.

[-]

"…How could you try 'n' _shoot_ me, Lud? Really, I treated you better than that, didn't I?" Gilbert didn't know why he was handcuffed. Did they still think he was dangerous? The potential blow to the head blew his insanity right out of him. He was shaking, just a little bit, but that was completely out of his control. He wasn't planning on anything drastic… Not anymore.

Gilbert had gotten his point across – he'd seen it in Francis's eyes. How a loss could affect every aspect of your life, and those you live around. Your children, family, friends, neighbors… You could never escape loss. While Gilbert had wanted the idea to be imprinted on Arthur's stubborn face, his significant other might as well do. He wondered how this revelation – that you were never out of loss's grip – would tear up their relationship. He hoped it'd fix his father's with the rest of the world…

But these ponderings were serious, serious business. Something for him to talk to someone about later. At the moment, though, he wanted to know how his darling brother could manage the guts to actually shoot a gun. And at family, no less.

It created loss.

"Shut up," Ludwig demanded of his sibling.

"I mean, seriously," Gilbert reiterated.

Ludwig had sent Feliciano to pull the cruiser around, and when he pulled up, Feliciano jumped out to open the back door for them.

"I'm not some damn criminal, Ludwig!" Gilbert shouted, nonsensical, getting angry again. "Really, everything I did was for a good reason."

Ludwig had the consideration to bend his brother's head down before tossing him into the car. He continued to scream, but as soon as the car door slammed, there was nothing but silence and dust.

Until Feliciano, his face tight with distress, said, "You've never… You've never shot at anyone before. Why – ?"

"I should have seen it coming," Ludwig admitted, to Feliciano, and only to Feliciano. "When I left him at the hands of a father who was crippled when it came to caring, I should have known that it would do something drastic. That _he'd_ do something drastic."

"You couldn't have – "

"No, it was in Gilbert's eyes the day I left. And then when I heard from him that Antonio, one of our neighbors, had gone away… I should have done something then. Antonio had always kept Gilbert feeling loved, like he should have been. Should have…" He took a moment to clench a fist and knock it against the window. (Gilbert jumped in surprise, then began to spout profanities.) "I never knew that Gilbert knew about my dad and that Arthur character. I never knew he'd heard the story, somewhere, and put two and two together. Damn. Who'd have thought that their sons would one day meet? And Gilbert would think it fine and dandy to manipulate him into this crazy goose chase just to get some sort of… emotional revenge. It's just…" Ludwig stopped, looking to the overly-concerned auburn eyes gleaming at him. "It's just something I should have stopped before it ever begun."

Feliciano, sniffling, asked timidly, "…I know it's not alright, but you really look like you need a hug. Can I give you a hug?"

[-]

Antonio's head felt like it was on fire. And that was not just because of the heat that had suddenly sprung. It was the thoughts and feelings that had suddenly started to overthrow his conscious mind and all of its defenses. He'd never had to go undercover as, well, himself before. The assignment had been an odd one: to use his connection to an old friend – how they figured out the connection, he'll never know – and lure him, and an unidentified other, to a certain address. Unfortunately he'd been out of town and had to drive all the way back – sparing one stop at a nice grocery store on the way – just to barely get there by deadline.

He stood around, pretending to look for Ludwig's spent bullet, shuffling his feet in the dirt and keeping his head down.

So the lies had come easily, to his surprise. _I opened a restaurant. No, my family in Spain didn't like me. Would you like to see my restaurant?_

When, really, all of his dreams had been smothered in Spain when every attempt at a restaurant had been crushed. He decided to come back, but not to his old town – to Hetalian, and join its police force, after his cousin had been shot and killed and no one had given a damn.

Hetalian was where he'd met Lovino.

Antonio ran his hands over his face and breathed deeply. He was smothering underneath all of his clothing. Even his hat seemed to be closing in on him. He paced around in circles.

Lovino had been somewhat of a wild card. What else would you call a suspect you'd pulled in with a potential link to a of string of kidnappings and subsequent murders and had fallen in love with? A wild card. That's what. Love at first sight, something that his job tried to force him not to believe.

And when they'd meet again for the second time? Fireworks. That's all he could remember – maybe they'd both been a little too drunk, a little too desperate – fireworks. The whole night had blown up in a nice display of color and light. He didn't know if they fought, argued, or even loved, but he knew he awoke in his room the next morning with a bad taste in his mouth.

Then a third meeting. Wow, how peculiar! The third time he'd meet Lovino, it had been in the middle of a case. Can you say, wrong place wrong time? (But he wanted to figure it as right place, right time.) Just casually, on the sidewalk of a random street. He'd been with a group. Gang, he guessed. It hadn't looked like Lovino had abandoned his old 'friends' yet, still hanging around the crowd that kept him in trouble. Additionally, kept him in contact with Antonio. Maybe he should be thankful. But, he'd known for certain that any of those 'friends' wouldn't hesitate to out him as a cop. And he couldn't have that, working undercover and all. And Antonio had gotten so filled with anxiousness that all he could do was curse and head to the other side of the street like a school girl, dragging Gilbert and Matthew like dolls behind him. That might have been a little... extreme. He'd admit it. But his dual motivations - to not be outed, and not to be spotted by someone he still didn't know how he felt about - threw him across that street before he could even think it over.

And then again. Also, on a sidewalk. But Antonio had been in the middle of a chase... And why had the emotions seized him so badly? Maybe because it was Lovino walking alone, without his shroud of danger to obscoure the beauty? Maybe. Probably. It nearly cost him the life of a young man.

Antonio had wanted to talk Lovino afterward. It'd been another pipedream. Unfortunately, as it turned out, Lovino had so many warrants under his belt – thus Antonio had found out when he'd searched him – that when the police came running toward him, he could do nothing but run, and leave him all in the dust.

Antonio tried to remember how exactly balance worked. He had trouble staying on his own two feet, what with whole foundation crumbling underneath him…

[-]

Maybe he could just hide out for a while, in this pretty little town called Hetalian. It had enough to claim his attention. A wild night life. Dirty streets. Gangs, danger. Maybe he could dip into this life, and take it as his own. Escape from the past that has grown a shadow and risen from death to strangle him in its afterlife. Past, Ivan reflected, past he'd tried so hard, so extremely hard, to smother so well into the very backs of his closets that it wouldn't rise again. But it had. But it had, and in the hands of his troublesome son, as well. A son he'd very much considered throwing out when he came out pale and colorless. What a pathetic child. A constant gray in a world of rainbows… But in this son came not just blandness, but potential. A potential that Ivan had never been able to pin until that very moment.

Gilbert's potential was for destruction.

Well, wasn't it?

He'd destroyed his father's reputation. Possibly scarred the lives of three decorated officers, and ripped up a whole family (even if that dastardly blonde-haired family deserved destruction). Gilbert had done well, with this destruction.

But destruction, as Gilbert was too young to have ever learned, shouldn't have come with consequences or casualties…

That, and many other things, were things that, as a father, Ivan should have taught his son. But how could he have? In all honesty, they made him out to be the bad guy, but how could you love something that reminded you of a love you'd loss? He'd had no love to bring forth to his sons! They'd both started as one-night stands and ended up as messy court cases. But since both of their mothers, amazingly, had turned out worse for wear than a clinically depressed father, he'd been granted sole custody. It had been all too much to believe. So he thought, once Gilbert had come into his life:

There's two of them. They can take care of each other.

And love… love was something he'd lived without for many, many years now. Why was it that Gilbert was still fighting about it? No one seemed to understand that you didn't need love to live…

Well, maybe you needed it to be happy, but what more was happiness than what pills could give you?

Ivan sighed, watching a fruity sun as it dipped further into the sky. It was a miserable way to end today, with a golden promise for better days to come. A pain interrupted the beating of his heart.

The sun. It was lying to him. Straight to his face.

Just like Arthur had, Ivan remembered. Ivan hypothesized that out of the five years they'd spent together, at least half of them had been spent in infidelity on Arthur's part. How else could Francis have proposed, up in out of nowhere? The lie, though, was when Arthur finally ended things:

_"I've just… fallen out of love."_

It wasn't that he'd fallen out of love, it was that he'd fallen _in_ love. But with someone else, someone who had a future and spoke a romantic language.

This was what the marigold sunset was reminding him of. And it laughed at him, deep and slow.

[-]

Out of all the surprises he'd ever experienced over his long, fulfilling life, this one took the cake. This surprise had come out of nowhere and taken him about the throat. Strangled him, as he stared it into the face and tried to discern exactly how he hadn't seen it coming. Something so huge, so blatant… how couldn't he have noticed it, hiding out in the shadows under Arthur's eyes and in the corner of every room they'd ever occupied? It'd been there. The whole time.

Francis had been just so blindly happy, so blindly naïve, that he hadn't even thought to… to think about it.

_Infidelity._

Such a stubborn word. Joining it was: _lies_, _deceit_, and _untruthfulness_.

Francis could fill a whole dictionary with words to describe everything he'd missed. He buried his face into his son's shoulder, not daring to look up at the embodiment of his swirling worries.

Arthur's hand was on his back, also swirling.

[-]

Matthew's chest was hollow and his heartbeat would echo at least three times before it would settle down. There was nothing else in his body for it to worry about. No lungs, he couldn't breathe. No ribcage, he felt as weak and malleable as putty. If it wasn't for his father holding him so very tightly, he'd have been a puddle on the ground.

His father was whispering quiet nothings, also filling Matthew's empty head.

* * *

**A/N**: And with this, I take my bow from this story. And the tomatoes tossed at my head. (Just don't tell Antonio.)

Evil Has Never by Union of Knives


End file.
